I was on my way home alone after a nice late-night dinner at the Cheesecake Factory with my good friend. I was happily full from Chicken Marsela, garlic mashed potatoes and this great hot french bread and sweet wheat bread smeared with real butter that melted into each crumb. I had two glasses of St. Michele house Chardonnay, which massaged my stressful day away. I drank freshly-brewed iced tea and enjoyed a couple refills. Lastly, I ended with this rich, hot coffee swirled with a touch of cream and a slice of pumpkin pecan cheesecake topped with freshly whipped cream. Ahhh....I was sated, satisfied and saturated, ready to jump into bed for a long, restful night of slumber and dreams of hog heaven.

Then I get home and, once again, some fucker has parked in my second parking space. I wasn't using the space. But it's MY space. Not theirs. Not to borrow. Not to steal. What if friends showed up unexpectedly from Paris and needed MY space? I own the fucking space. I was trailer boy who lived his adolescence in a mobile home (that means trailer). I am not trailer boy anymore and this condo-owning mother fucker does not cotton to strange ass bites taking my hard-earned extra space.

I always have to write some threatening, petty note and put it on the anonymous and ill parked car's front window just under the windshield wiper. "Don't park here ever again. This is not your space. Expect to be towed if I see you here again."

I was tired. I was full. I was pissed that I was again put in the position that I had to write some sniveling note.

Suddenly, it came to me. I didn't have to write any note. The space is mine to do with as I will.

I focused on the trespassing overgrown SUV's front left tire. I saluted and assumed the position. A river of ice water with lemon, St. Michele house Chardonnay, freshly-brewed iced tea and rich java with cream gushed from my loins like the broken dam of my pent up anger unfurled all over the skid-proof tread of that offending tire.

I pissed on that tire. I marked my territory. I claimed my space. I wrote no notes. I am the King of Space #17.

I adjusted my equipment and zipped up my fly as the flood receded on the cement parking garage floor. I turned and walked up to my lair. I had thought I was thoroughly satisfied from that sumptuous meal, but pissing on your problems and claiming your space is the ultimate satisfaction. I stripped down to my naked manly glory and commanded my bed as the lion does the jungle. I slept like the King of the Beasts after a hard day's slaughter. I slept like the King of Space #17 and dreamt of captaining the rivers of the world and conquering my piece of the universe.