If you’re looking for the huddled masses, check out the municipal parking ramp. Folks are always bent over the pay station figuring out how to pay for parking.
You automatically get three free hours of parking — just enough time to decode the instructions.
Step 2 reads, “follow prompts.” No help here. The prompter voice quickly tires of calling you a moron and shuts up entirely.
Sometimes the pay station goes on the fritz without telling you. It won’t take your credit card. Worse, the meter cop won’t take your explanation.
To help you, payment options are generous. You can pay with anything of value — cash, credit card … pints of blood.
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My waist size is equatorial. While working on waistline maintenance over lunch, a woman walks by the restaurant window. Her bare arms dwarf most Sequoias.
She proudly sports a hand-to-shoulder tattoo. Even if you’re tattoo phobic, the artwork is museum quality.
The artist modestly tattoos his name just below the woman’s wrist ... Picasso.
Ida laments her teenage daughter dressing in designer rags — pricey jeans with manufactured holes that look like a bear assault.
“I don’t understand,” moans Ida. “Trixie could dress to look sophisticated or hip but she chooses grunge.”