Here we go again. I’m walking into work and what do I see? That numbskull, Jenkins, parked his clunker in the CEO’s spot…
Here we go again. I’m walking into work, just trying to be a normal, functioning human being, and what do I see? That numbskull Jenkins has his clunker parked in the CEO’s spot… AGAIN.
Again.
At this point it’s not even a mistake—it’s a lifestyle choice. Like he wakes up every morning, stretches, and goes, “How can I disrespect authority today?”
Newsflash, Jenkins: you’re not the big cheese. You’re not even the shredded cheese on the side. That’s why your car—if we’re still calling that thing a car—does not belong where the CEO parks.
I’m standing there with my coffee, trying to mind my own business, but I can’t. Because now I’m staring at this automotive crime scene. That thing looks like it got abandoned after prom night and just… gave up on life. Faded bumper stickers, dented fenders, and an air freshener that expired sometime during the Bush administration. You don’t park that in a premium spot—you park that behind a warehouse and hope nobody asks questions.
And now it’s sitting there. In the one spot that actually matters.
So I walk over. “Dude. Move your ride. You’ve been told. Multiple times.”
He hits me with that smug little grin. You know the one. The “I’m about to say something stupid and stand by it” grin. “Oh, come on, Hal. It’s just a parking spot.”
Just a parking spot?
That’s like saying the cockpit is just another seat on a plane. No, it’s not. There’s a hierarchy. There’s structure. Society depends on people not doing exactly what you’re doing right now.
I point at his car. “You’re basically parking in the throne room.”
He shrugs. “Not my problem.”
Oh, now it’s your problem.
Now we’re both getting louder. People are slowing down, pretending to check emails while very clearly watching this unfold. You can feel it—this is no longer about parking. This is about order versus chaos. This is civilization hanging by a thread.
Jenkins starts getting defensive. “I was here first!”
I go, “Great. So if I show up early, I get promoted? That how this works? Should I grab your schedule for the day, or are you just freelancing as CEO now?”
Now he’s sweating. Good. We’re making progress.
And right on cue, the front doors open. The CEO walks in.
I’m thinking, finally. Justice. This is it. This is where Jenkins learns consequences.
The CEO looks at the spot. Looks at Jenkins. Looks at me.
Then—without saying a word—he walks past the space… and parks right next to Jenkins’ busted-up disaster like they’re part of the same exhibit.
Right next to it.
The entire office loses it. Phones come out. People are laughing like this is the best thing they’ve seen all week. One guy goes, “Hey, looks like we’re starting a used car lot!”
I’m standing there like my brain just shut off mid-sentence.
Jenkins? Oh, Jenkins is trying not to smile now. Trying. Failing.
And I’m just there, holding my coffee, realizing I somehow lost an argument… about a parking spot… to a guy whose vehicle shouldn’t legally be allowed to idle.
I throw my hands up. “I’m not the one parking like a lunatic!”
Nobody cares. They’re all laughing. Even Jenkins.
Fantastic. Great. Perfect.
I came in here ready to work, and now I’m part of a parking lot comedy show.
Yeah.
It’s gonna be one of those days.
Yeah, Yeah, it’s gonna be one of those days…