Reading DjangoDurango's journal

So the other day, I was at The Tomato, a lovely little pizzeria I'm fond of, workshopping my latest project with my friend Jami. Okay, after I admitted that I hadn't gotten my scripts or my layouts printed for her and she showed me the napkin drawing she did of one of our comic's characters, the workshopping pretty much degenerated into just dickin' around and discussing the pros and cons of ZADR. But I digress.

The Tomato lies on Fry Street, which is probably the most interesting place in the whole of my native Denton. As such, finding parking there is a bitch. All the spaces in front of the restuarant having parking meters in front of them. The big ass parking lot behind it costs three bucks a spot. So what do us poor ass college students do? We park in the lot belonging to a church on Oak Street and walk to the restaurant.

Little did we know (though the signs posted at all the entrances to the lot should've been a pretty good clue), the lot was campus parking and requires a permit. So when we finally decided we'd done exhibited enough dipshittery at the restaurant and decided to take it to a comic book store instead, we found that someone had left us small parcels pinned under our windshield wipers.

I'll not hold you in suspense. They were tickets.

I was pissed. At first. You see, I tend to tear ass, so getting tickets is nothing I'm new to. In fact, I'm working on one right now. How the fuck am I supposed to know I was entering a school zone if there's no sign to tell me so? You could'n't even see the fucking school from where I was coming from! But anyway...

After the initial shock of recieving yet another ticket wore off, I actually got around to reading the damn thing. It was only for $35. I was shocked. Only $35, thought I. I've never once gotten off that easily. Of course, I've never gotten a parking violation either. that's when I noticed. The ticket was not the standard City of Denton kind that I'm accustomed to. It was bloody green, for fuck's sake. This one was not "official". It was the University of North Texas who dared to exert their authority on my good time.

Jami was equally upset at first, but as she got into my car, she said, "At least it's not a real ticket."

There was a momentary silence wherein I thought about what all she could have meant by that. I then proceeded to laugh my ass off.

A real ticket! Pshhh! This piece of twatrot ticket came from campus police, not the real pigs! Even the consequences for not paying the fine reeked of psuedo-authority. "FAILURE TO PAY THIS, OR ANY OTHER OUTSTANDING CITATIONS MY RESULT IN THE BLOCKING OF TRANSCRIPTS AND/OR REGISTRATION..." Big fucking deal, officer. That only affects me if I actually go to UNT. Which I don't. I'm currently an NCTC cat. If I went to UNT, chances are I would've had the fucking permit in the first place, dipshit. You sure showed me, the punkass parking violator.

DJ = served.

We sat in my car and had a hearty laugh, hoping all the while that the pompous prick who left the tickets was still around to watch as we scoffed at his pissant citation-giving powers.

If ever there was an argument for sittin' down and shuttin' up, Henry Harrison is it.

This post was edited by DjangoDurango on Jun 02, 2006.

Well at least somebody had a good time. Would this Jami possibly be our very own Salviel, or is the spelling that I've only seen once in my life a mere coincedence?

I should be ashamed of myself.

Would this Jami possibly be our very own Salvial, or is the spelling that I've only seen once in my life a mere coincedence?

She would, indeed. And likewise I am the same Django Durango she mentions as the creator of the Dicketry ring. But you can call me DJ, because spelling the whole thing every time is pretentious.

If ever there was an argument for sittin' down and shuttin' up, Henry Harrison is it.

But you can call me DJ

Nonsense. We shall call you Duran Duran.

But I can't find no place or nothin', where thrills are cheap, and love is divine

You know, younger version of me would object. Of course, the younger version of me didn't know as many embarrasing ways to contort my psuedonym as the current one does.

If ever there was an argument for sittin' down and shuttin' up, Henry Harrison is it.

Jami was equally upset at first, but as she got into my car, she said, "At least it's not a real ticket."

This is possibly my greatest one liner to date. Anyway, enough with that tooting of my own horn. The real humor in the story is when we were exhibiting much ass haulery down Locust and concluded that the ticket was the campus cop equivilant of the library fine. Though, the late fee on it is a lot higher than ten cents per day. Nay, thouse douchebags insist upon a late fee of 18 dollars flat. Or is it? Do you think the late fee builds up by eighteen dollars every ten days you fail to pay?

I went home and told our story of square titted ticketing and in the end my mother concluded that the most amusing part of it was the self addressed envelope that UNT sends with the ticket that suspiciously comes printed on reciept tape. I think, in retrospect this amuses me almost more than "at least it's not a real ticket".

Some people just take themselves far too seriously.

--Jami

You fail it.