I’ve tried Wordless Wednesday. Pretty tough gig when your passion is words.

I’ve also tried What I Wore Wednesday. Those may have been my four least favorite blog posts ever.

So rather than continuing to force my stubbly square peg into round, perfectly coiffed holes, I’m making an executive decision to dedicate this Wednesday to something I’m actually good at: shaking my head, raising my hands in despair, and saying WHAT THE FUCK! 

Yes, my friends, it’s officially known as WTF Wednesday. And unlike the word “vajillion,” I did not invent it.

For those of you ESL readers of The Bearded Iris, WTF is an expression people use to succinctly express a combination of utter disbelief and disgust. Mothers of young children are particularly familiar with this feeling, especially upon the discovery of bodily excretions in odd places like walls, ceilings, or door handles.

I probably mutter/sigh/shout/sob this glorious phrase several times each day, so the challenge for me will be to pinpoint and highlight just one mindboggling topic each week.

This week, my most profound WTF experience was a no brainer:

Say it with me, friends: WHAT. THE. FUCK!

I know what you’re thinking: Iris is going to get her ass killed one of these days taking pictures of cars and bad drivers.

Maybe so. But totally worth it. This is precisely the kind of crap that pushes me over the edge. If I don’t do SOMETHING about it, I will most likely explode. And like my husband says, “At least she’s not keying cars anymore.”

I took this shot last week at my daughter’s overcrowded elementary school, where parking is always at a premium. And I’ll have you know this car is nowhere near the entrance to the school, so don’t get all compassionate on me and give this d-bag the benefit of the doubt. Chances are pretty good the driver was not racing to administer an EpiPen to a child in advanced stages of anaphylactic shock.

And I can’t imagine the driver of this vehicle is strategically trying to protect the sides of her Armada by purposely taking up two parking spots. If it was a vintage cherry Mustang, that would be one thing. But a late model Japanese SUV? Don’t think so.

Nope. This is just vehicular inconsideration at its finest.

Was he in *that* much of a hurry to volunteer in little Johnny’s classroom that he couldn’t take 30 extra seconds to straighten out his parking job? If he’s two minutes late will the kids in that class miss their opportunity to make 3-D topographic maps of the state of Georgia out of candy and marshmallow dough? Don’t get me started.

This level of inconsideration is deplorable to me. And in a public parking lot where everyone can see and take pictures and slash your tires? Dumb ass.

And I see it all the time.

Earlier this week at my daughter’s dance school:

Are you effin’ kidding me?

This parking lot is so small and crowded that people regularly have to park up the street and walk across a weedy meadow to get to the school. But this lady is going to prevent an additional car from parking here, in the RAIN? Really? She’s lucky Bucket Head was asleep because I was *this close* to cramming my big ass Mombulance into that spot and swinging open my door over and over and over. Can’t you just hear me: “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I couldn’t get out. I guess you didn’t realize it, but there are handicap spots closer to the front door for folks with special needs, bless your heart!”

Twat waffle.

I don’t know who died and made me the head of the Brigade Against Asshole Drivers (BAAD), but what’s done is done. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to vent about it.

Clearly, dealing with such inconsideration on such a regular basis is enough to cause any decent citizen to hit the crack pipe. But instead of letting these idiots get me down, I’m going to find a more constructive way of managing my stress.

We are in the process of (slowly) remodeling our master bathroom and I wonder if there is a special shower head like this fab little Monoglide that can soothe away my road-rage-induced stress. Perhaps Professor Toilet can help. And if not, maybe I can borrow his sick-ass wrench to leave a little hello-howdy on the next poorly parked car I see.

Just keeping it real, one parking lot at a time,

-Iris

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