...and whiskers on kittens, Bright copper kettles and warm woollen — whaaaaaaaaaaat?
"Parking Lot Full"?
Whaddya mean, "Parking Lot Full"? What is this? Some kinda fascist regime? Aintcha never heard of customer service, you bozos? As in, when EE condescends to visit your lousy store to fill your coffers with the three dollars friggin' fifty that might — just might — make the big deal fuckin' difference between you going to same wall as Lehmans or riding high on a cloud of shameless success like yours fuckin' truly, you make damn sure there's plenty of space for him to park his FUCKIN' CAR.
Whaddya expect me to do? Wait around for five fuckin' minutes till some dumbass fucks off outta here and you raise the fuckin' barrier? Listen up, you shits, if I don't get my sugar rush right this fuckin' minute, I'll go crazy, do you hear me? Crazy. You wanna thank your lucky stars it's nearly fuckin' Christmas or I'd whup your miserable fuckin' corporate ass. Jesus H. Fuckin' Bastard Chriiiiiiiiist! And what's the fuckin' problem with installing a fuckin' drive thru, huh? Yeah, a big fuckin' cinnamon bun fuckin' drive thru. Right fuckin' here. You ever thoughta that? Or whaddabout ANOTHER FUCKIN' PARKING SPACE? All you fuckin' need is a shitload of fuckin' thin air and I'm bettin'you got plenty of that between your lame ass fuckin' ears.
Jesus! Look what you made me do to my fuckin' horn, you bastards!
Awwwwwww — go fuck your fuckin' barrier. I'm totalling your "Parking Lot Full". Naw, I tellya what — I'm cranking this baby up to sixty M P fuckin' H and crashing the fucker right in through the front of your lousy fuckin' store you fuckin' fuckers. With my ass hangin' out the fuckin' window. And Whitney fuckin' Houston full fuckin' on...