Translation

My delicate little tulips,

Do you not have your Dickhead Decoder Ring on today? Poor, unfortunate you. 

Allow me to translate the message being conveyed by this here vehicle operator:

What up, suckas? I'm noticin' you noticin' me in this here sports car with a handicapped hang-tag rollin' dick-on-wheels, and I reckon that squeeze in your froat is from the douche fumes coming out of my exhaust sheer awesomeness of this overpriced German engineering and this bad-ass muthafucken parking job. Bow down, bitches.

In case you ain't noticed, I park how I wanna park when I roll into the mall to scout for high school chicks who wouldn't notice me even if I shit hundred dollar bills. This parking job says, "What up, hataz? You best speed on before you get peed on. Your parking spot's clear on the other side of Sears, about three football fields out. What now, bitch?"

Wanna know my secret? It's like this: I know a guy. We'll call him Buddy. Known each other since college when we could barely even get the ugliest, bitchiest, skankiest girls to bang us. Somehow, his dumb ass got into medical school and now he writes me bullshit excuses for the holy grail of parking passes: the handicap tag.

And--in case you were wondering--YEAH. Yeah, I saw that Vietnam vet with a plastic hip, glass eye, and permanent limp who parked his Toyota Corolla out in BFE throw me a hard side-eye as I slid into this parking spot on two wheels and then hopped right the hell out and skipped into the mall, happy as a schoolgirl hopped up on helium.

And for all you shit-talkin', piece-o-crap bloggers out there, thanks for the shout-out to my little FUCK-YOU license plate. You like that, don'tcha?