Shoulda

I had to drop off some papers at our central city office early this morning. The building is eight stories tall and has parking for maybe 15 cars, with no spaces for deliveries or visitors. I whipped into the space nearest the doors and ran the papers up to our office. I was back down again in less than three minutes.


Nevertheless, there was a car lurking behind mine when I returned. As I unlocked my door, the lumpy 50-something woman in the other car said, in a tone containing equal parts smug moral superiority, thinly-veiled hostility, over-dramatic suffering and common-or-garden impatience, "Hello; that's MY space."


My reply was one of the following:

1) And I love what you've done with it. Who's your decorator?

2) It looks just like you! You must be very proud.

3) According to Buddhist concept of wu ji, all ownership is an illusion. So bite me.

4) Crikey! Who'd you have to sleep with to get one of these spaces? Wait... don't answer that.

5) Go to hell, you revolting old slag.

6) OK.


Guess which one I used? Sheesh. If I was any worse at thinking on my feet, I'd be unable to walk in a straight line.