“I heard my friend’s car wouldn’t start, so I mailed him a parking lot. I should be a politician.”

“My hands fell asleep, so I washed them with hot coffee. Then I had donuts for breakfast, by way of spinning circles in my car and burning rubber in the parking garage of my office building.”

“I want to mail my mailman something. He always brings me mail, yet I never give him any mail. Maybe he will appreciate the thought, or maybe he will feel I am making more work for him.”

“Now that parking meters have shifted from quarters to credit cards, I worry someone will steal my identity, my wallet, and my car and drive around town parking all over the place.”

“I want to have five or six wives, and a few dozen sheep, all for my pleasure. I should be a politician.”

“My car rides smooth like I’m driving a cloud. If I park it at your house, I may get rainwater on your living room carpet.”

“I wrote this piece because my mailbox was full of bills, junk mail, and lettuce, but not a single letter from Andre Breton. So I decided I’d write to him (though I did eat my first two drafts).”