Call it heresy, call it sacrilege, call it whatever the deuce you want. I call it an epiphany of sorts. Let me explain. The other day I returned to Sigma Chi to find our president leafing through a rainbow of ‘package’ slips — our monthly shipment of cleaning supplies. Having just driven my Jeep carefully onto our back lawn, it made the most sense for yours truly to retrieve said packages, and I did so with the eagerness of someone who was just sent to the post office to get soap. My upper body strength not being what is used to never be, I elected to park in the closest spot behind Todd, in a space known to some as “handicapped,” for the few seconds that it took for me to lug each box from the package store. It was some time during this process that a member of the elusive parking services crept up — among the shadows, I imagine — to the Jeep, and moments later I emerged to find a citation. “For the love of Shakira,” I exclaimed, “the blinkers were on!”So, encouraged by my vindictive associate Alex “Voetsch” Voetsch, I embarked on a campus-wide quest to find the ticket bearing villain that had sullied the good name of my parking, and engage him in a fierce debate, if not hand-to-hand combat — the latter of which I would quickly pass off to “Voetsch.” Nearly relenting after a futile search of the every possible lot, I was inspired at last minute by “Voetsch,” who inquired, “Dude, if there was $50 sitting in a parking lot for you to find, you’d keep looking, right?” Why, yes, “Voetsch.” Yes I would.I soon found my prey in the booth at the entrance to campus. I parked my car behind his van, blocking him in, the scoundrel, and approached. In the car, “Voetsch” readied nunchukus. The man and I surveyed each other for a moment before I finally spoke, calmly, to explain the situation and to begin my coup. He listened patiently, occasionally nodding. “Voetsch” sat primed, waiting for my hand gesture indicating “napalm the booth.” Yet, to my surprise, the gentlemen sympathized — he voided my ticket, apologized, and said that he would take the heat for letting a delinquent parker like me off the proverbial hook. Shock washed over me. My neck involuntarily twitched. Could it be that the Parking Services aren’t a Nazi regime? That they aren’t worthy of unmitigated reproach? That somewhere, under the diabolical veneer, they’re human, trying to tolerate a thankless job and appreciative of any courteous approach? It would seem so. But I didn’t say it.

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