There's a South African cunt at work.
He drives an Audi (coincidence?) and he is completely incapable of parking in the middle of a marked space.

My new car is somewhat narrower than my previous one, so I take full advantage of that. A few weeks ago I swung into the space I usually use (they're not assigned; I'm just a creature of habit) and noted that Eugene Terreblanche's car was next to mine, with barely enough space between our cars to swipe a credit card. Couldn't have done that with my previous ride. I mentally shrugged and wandered along to my desk. He had ample room next to his passenger door if he wanted to get in his car. Besides, my shift ended earlier than his, so I'd be gone before he'd need to drive again.

Later that day, while outside with a colleague taking in caffeine and fresh air in equal measure, Eugene approached us and asked if I'd move my car since it was blocking his driver's door.

"Crikey, you parked a bit wide there, mate. Did you mean to?"
"Yeah, I always park like that because I don't want anyone else parking next to me."

The car park at work is quite large, and staffing levels are quite low, so there are always many spaces free. If Eugene wants to park like a cunt, he could easily pick a space 15 seconds' walk further away from the office door. But he's too lazy to do so.

That old Spitting Image song was right.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Thu 29 Apr 2010, 0:57, Reply)