Fuck You of the Day

Sometimes I really enjoy this city, and I feel like it is the only place besides Pittsburgh I'll ever really love to live in. And sometimes, I want to take a flamethrower to city hall. This is one of those flamethrower times.

Observe this picture:

You may click to enlarge. It is not a Rick Roll. I am fucking sick of Rick Rolling.

Indeed, it is a parking ticket. Usually when I get these, it's my fault. I flake out and don't see a restriction sign and come back to a memo stuffed under my windshield wiper that reminds me of how much of a retard I am, and that my retardation requires some sort of fee for the city. I accept this. But look closer, in the bottom right corner:


It says "WHEELS STRAIGHT." WHEELS STRAIGHT. I got a $45 ticket because my parked car's wheels were straight on a grade greater than 3%. Which begs the question; Are you fucking kidding me? I half expected to flip the ticket over and see something like, "You've been LOL'ed by www.faketicket.com (a subsidiary of icanhascheezburger)."

I understand that the hills in San Francisco are steep, and curbing one's wheels helps prevent runaway cars. But, my wheels were curbed. Granted they weren't buried into the sidewalk, but they were definitely angled toward the curb. And $45 for this violation? What a raping! Is it not enough that it is a million percent more expensive to rent an apartment in this city? Or that San Francisco taxes the everloving shit out of my paycheck every two weeks? Or that I already paid the DPT $85 for the esteemed privilege of parking on the street in my own fucking neighborhood? They need to rake me for $45 because I didn't curb my wheels enough for some parking cop? Jesus Christ, San Francisco. If you're going to bend me over the least you could do is offer a reach around.

So fuck you, San Francisco. You have cost me approximately eight beers.