I remember a time, long ago, when I got my first car. I was sixteen. It broke down, and I didn't have money to fix it, so I parked it in the backyard of my house on a concrete parking space that was back there. It sat for a few weeks, and a couple of the tires went flat. A city inspector came to my door and told my father that he would have to get rid of the car, because it was abandoned and an eyesore. Proof that it had been abandoned? The flat tires, which I hadn't bothered to pump up. It showed that the car had not moved for some time. The inspector said that if it wasn't gone by such-and-such a date, my father would be fined. So I sold the car for $50 dollars, pumped up the tires, and the new owner drove it away. I can't remember what was wrong with it, but whatever it was, it could still be driven. Can you fucking believe this? We're talking the 1960s here. The fucking car was just a car. It didn't have any body damage. It wasn't a wreck, it hadn't been burned out. It was just a car with a couple of flat tires. And some cunt of a neighbor reported it to the city because it hadn't moved from its parking space -- a concrete parking space -- for a few weeks. I tell you, it made me re-evaluate my attitude toward other human beings. I couldn't believe that one of my neighbors was such a flaming, sneaking little cunt. But he got his wish -- I moved the car.