My mother, a resident of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, departed this life in 1996. Her home, the same one I was raised in, was a ten-minute walk from Bryant Denny stadium. In those days, game day parking was in demand and yahoos from all over the Deep South parked all over the place on my old street. Mrs. Llama. Baby Llama and I lived on the Gulf OF MEXICO end of the state. We would commute on game weekends and stay in the house while estate admin was ongoing. One day Bama had some kind of punk ass early kick game on Jefferson Pilot. I went to run an errand about 9:30 only to find some asshole had parked behind me blocking my vehicle inside the driveway. After considering some of the criminal mischief options above, I settled on removing the asshole’s license plate. We watched the game on TV (no tix), and expected the asshole might be knocking on the door at some point, at which I planned to play dumb other than to ask him to GTFO my driveway or prepare to be towed, which happened frequently on game days. I went out eventually and found the asshole had gone. On Sunday, as we drove back to the coast, I sailed his license plate off a tall bridge into the muddy waters of the Alabama River just South of Jackson, Alabama. I hope the fucker got pulled over, charged wigh DUI, hassled and searched by state troopers every 30 miles wherever he went on his way home. The absolute selfish bullshit! He had no idea who he was blocking in that day or if someone in the house might need to use their fucking driveway. Asshole.