A long time ago, in a city just down the highway…a religion was born. Then, after a long night, it was co-opted, and it’s icon elevated to the much valued urban god of parking. Yes, of couse I speak of Bob. Long may his white-lined dominion rule the asphalt plains.
Bob is my Parking God.
As in, when one enters a parking lot, one prays to Bob for a good space, and when He provides, as he is known to do, you say, “Praise Bob!”. (If there are two Bobbers in the car, then you have to say “Pray to Bob!”, and the other one says “Praying to Bob, Sir!”…then as required, “Praise Bob!”.
Now, I’ve been doing this for years and years, and it’s such a ritual, that I don’t really notice I’m doing it. Today, we pull into a parking lot and The Boy says “Are we seeing Bob again?” To which I replied, “I dunno, are we praying to Bob?” and he says “Yep, praying to Bob, Mom.” And of course, we found the best parking space in the lot, and The Boy yells out “Praise Bob! Yay!”
Hee! The Slack is strong in this One.