I'm Movin' Out...

No, no, not out of my apartment, don't you worry, Designated Driver.  The title of this entry refers to yesterday morning.  I was walking from my building to my car, which was parked on the street, when I noticed a semi tractor-trailer blocking an ENTIRE LANE of traffic on my street (which, by the way, is a very busy street).  The tractor-trailer was also blocking my car, and, since I needed to retrieve it immediately to avoid being over fifteen minutes late for work (which in my time translates to "punctual"), I panicked when I couldn't find any driver, occupant, or legal guardian of said truck.  The only person present, in fact, was a man strongly resembling George Lopez, parked in a beat-up Honda Accord behind the tractor-trailer.  When I asked him what was going on, he replied, "Don't know.  But it sucks, doesn't it?"  Then he proceeded to ask what my rent was.  Oh, right.  Like I'm going to have that conversation with you, George Lopez wannabe in your Honda, strangely parked behind this truck and perusing the newspaper.  What exactly are you doing here, if not raping and pillaging?  So I told him I didn't know what my rent was, but that I was now going to be late for work, thanks to the morons who'd left their tractor-trailer running and blocking an entire lane on my very busy street.  Ten minutes later, when still no one had approached the cab, I called the Designated Driver to inform her that I would never be parking on the street again and to connect me to the police.  She rolled her eyes (I couldn't see her, but I know that's what she was doing) and gave me the number of the closest police station.  I was holding when a very large, very disgruntled moving man lumbered out of a neighboring building and stared at me like I was crazy, "You need me to move the truck or something?"  I replied, "Um.  Yes."  "Okay," says he, and proceeds to take out his cell phone and make a call.  "Sir?"  I reminded him I was still there.  "I'll be with you in a minute," said he.  "No.  I'm already really late for work.  Move the fucking truck now," I replied.  "And I said I'd be with you in a minute," he continued.  So then I started screaming at him.  I actually cussed him out, and I didn't (and still don't) feel one ounce of guilt.  Turns out, there were three moving men - aka no reason one of their fat asses couldn't have parked themselves in the cab and cranked up the adult contemporary tunes.  I got their license plate, cab number, etc., and I plan on writing a letter to United Van Lines if I ever work myself into a tizzy thinking about it again.  But I cussed out a really large, really intimidating man!  How cool is that?  Maybe not the kindest thing to do, but those guys were total douchebags, and I rarely get the balls to say what I think, so I'm chalking this up to the victory category.  Also on the bright side, if my car gets vandalized within the next few days, I'll know whodunnit.  

In other news, Cliffhanger was the first to request that I bestow the Plus One to the premiere party on her, so all you other quacks are just too slow.  Plus, I owe her bigtime for not inviting her to the Pepper wrap party - what can I say?  Back then, she wasn't indispensable.