Fauxhasset Paroder, 49th Edition: For the love of God, we are begging you to pahk the cah

The Fauxhasset Police Department would like to remind residents that parking on sidewalks in the Village area isn’t classy.

What is this, a trailer park? You can’t just leave your vehicles wherever you want. Parking on sidewalks is a thing that lazy people do, and you’re not lazy, are you? And even if you were, you wouldn’t want your neighbors to know that, would you? No. So put your car in the parking lot where it belongs, or send it home with the valet.

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If you liked it then you shoulda put some bling on it. Wait, that’s not right… Photo Credit

Furthermore, with the solstice behind us, it is now officially summer, so don’t even think about sending your kids to the beach with the au pair if you haven’t bought her a parking pass. No pass, no car. If you liked it then you shoulda put a sticker on it.

As for the employees whose names we won’t name (but we know who you are), please leave public parking spaces open for the public. The satellite parking lot is at your complete disposal since we had Santa’s spaceship towed.

Please give your full and immediate attention to this matter, or the Capital Budget Committee will be forced to spend your tax dollars on a solution, and you won’t like it when they do.

This has been your official legal warning. Further offenses will result in remedial action.

Signed,

The Fauxhasset Police

Fauxhasset Paroder, 47th Edition: Drivers of Change

By Thamanda Crompson
Fauxhasset Paroder Staff Reporter

It’s finally summer, and with that comes the return of everyone’s favorite traffic vigilantes, the Clandestine Auto Regulators (CAR for short). The members of CAR have taken it upon themselves to educate out-of-town drivers during the summer season.

“Open season on the beach means open season on the roads,” says the profile on CAR’s Facebook Page, which has 23 Likes. “Drive softly and buy the big tires.”

The group has kicked off the season by chalking Atlantis Boulevard from where it splits off from Sand Street all the way to where it becomes the Mecca Mile.

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Rejected idea from the Clandestine Auto Regulators’ chalk campaign brainstorming session (“But if they think the road crumbled away, they won’t drive on it!”). Photo credit 

“Stop and smell the flowers,” says one of the many warnings scrawled across the pavement, followed by a long string of painstakingly detailed chalk flowers.

“Drive like your kids live here,” said several more, surrounded by hearts.

Other safety-oriented messages said, “Slow down! You’re on vacation,” “This isn’t the Indy 500,” and “You can stop trying to prove yourself; everyone here drives a faster car than you anyway.”

Police weren’t upset about the messages.

“They didn’t damage anything,” said Police Chief Stephen Quill. “This time.”

CAR’s last campaign in January was a different story. Members affixed their recycled Women’s March for America posters to speed limit signs on 3A, covering up the legal limit of 50 miles per hour with hand-made 35 mile per hour signs – the limit they believe should be posted.

And by “affixed,” we mean with duct tape, rubber cement, 3M Command strips, and the stickiest of all, those little adhesive squares that come in scrapbooking kits. Police spent hours out in the snow removing the sticky residue from the signs.

“We agree with their message,” Quill said. “As long as they don’t damage any property, and as long as they’re safe about drawing on the street, we won’t stop them. It’ll all wash off in the rain.”

The chalk may not stick, but hopefully the message will, or we’ll be seeing a lot more from CAR this summer, and it’ll only get messier from here.

 

Packing

Writing exercise: Write about a mundane activity, but incorporate random nouns supplied by others in the group, drawn from a hat.

Between the inner space and the outer night, four of us packed closely together inside the church’s door, our breath clouding the windows of the Narthex. Equipment littered the small space: a stack of binders teetered beside the recycling bin, a power cable strangled a miniature palm tree, and heavy black boxes of sound equipment framed a platypus someone had drawn on the chalkboard wall. All around lay disassembled shelves, collapsed paper lanterns, milk crates of odds and ends. Projectors. An Oriental carpet, 5-foot by 8-foot. What all these things had in common was that our pastor and his wife needed to fit them in their car and transport them to Pennsylvania for a conference. Bonus: pastor and wife also needed to fit in said car.

Outside, the trunk of the red coupe waited, seeming to cock its eyebrow at the amount of things we were about force-feed it. We got started. It was a tornado of lifting, shoving, sharing, and stubbing toes, punctuated by Tetris-themed advice. At last the church was empty and the car was full and we sent our friends on their way, wishing them safe travels and cheap clothes shopping: for the equipment left no space for a wardrobe.