Dude Or Douchebag: Parking Jobs

Let's face it parking is complicated.  In fact, like other jobs that women have worked hard to master to please men, parking is hard and takes a lot of practice.  In fact in my own sweet-ass, luxury SUV that I can't afford, I'm spoiled– there is beeping, flashing red lights, a back up camera, even another camera that gives me a overhead snapshot of my parking perspective and I've still got a bunch of white paint on my front bumper.  Ug.  So I'm pretty forgiving when someone parks poorly. Like this:

Sure, you're crossing the double lines outside of the bank on a Saturday morning when I just want to go inside, quickly deposit my check and get a quick, free crappy cappuccino. But because you've driven that awesome 914, I'm gonna let it slide.

Even this: 

If I had a '56 Triumph, I too would create an illegal parking space on PCH as I went down to the beach to illegally walk my mixed breed rescue.  I'm not getting the impression that you are a person that colors in the lines & I'm completely down with that. You sir, are a dude. Here's who is not:

Now this guy has taken the extra steps to park his beautiful Mustang as close to the curb as possible to avoid any type of drive by nonsense, only to be taken up the rear by some angry white female (yeah, I'm making generalizations, but it's like my 'n' word, I can use that as much as I want). Talk about a parking violation!

But the douchebag doozy goes to this poor fella:

A red convertible late model Mustang can only mean one thing in LA– a European tourist.  But they park cars in Germany too, right?  Why is he so afraid of the yellow curb? Does he think it's filled with the special sauce that makes us all so fat & ignorant? Perhaps.  That would explain a lot actually. But you're still a Douchebag.  In fact, you're a Franken-douchebag, which is worse. So go home, learn how to drive and then come back and enjoy my beautiful city, you Douchebag.