Red Sox Fans Are All Douchebags, aka Don’t Box Me In

I go to therapy not far from Fenway Park and Kenmore Square, a land of ample metered parking.  Usually.  But it’s baseball season, and as I came out of my session, the SUVs were roaming like mad cattle, foaming and frothing and honking and worst of all, NOT USING THEIR SIGNALS TO INDICATE LANE CHANGES.  (Careful there, E., your pet peeves are showing.)

I got to my car, got in, turned on the ignition, and had not yet even turned on my blinker when bang, one SUV WHIZ backed up right on top of me and BANG another crept up behind, both of them glaring at one another so hard that they completely ignored that between them, they’d made it impossible for me to get out of the space, because each of them had encroached at least six inches alongside my bumpers in an effort to claim the whole space.

I tried looking at one.  Then I tried to look at the other.  I honked my horn, even, because in Boston, this is universal for “Get out of the way, one of you assholes, because I can’t fucking get out of the space.”  I also glared over my glasses.

Apparently, they were both from the suburbs and did not comprehend, because neither one budged. I therefore got out of the car.  After all, I had fifteen minutes more on the meter, and there’s a lovely coffee place not that far away.

blc’s not going out, in a manner of speaking.  And Red Sox fans?  Don’t fence me in.  (I love Bing & the Andrews’ Sisters’ version too, but ooh, David Byrne.  How can you not love David Byrne singing that song?)

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