Dear Self-Centered Ignoramus:
Let's dispense with the formalities, shall we? Surely you won't mind if I call you Iggy. Because that's a lot nicer than what I really want to call you.
I understand that the doors on cars these days are wider than a Kardashian rump. That it is sometimes difficult to open them in the area allowed by parking spaces. My own Tahoe door has two calibrations: not wide enough, and all the way. But because I drive my Tahoe every day, I am aware of his limitations. I sometimes need to hold him between his factory door-open settings in order to avoid making contact with a car next to me. Because that's the right thing to do.
You, Iggy, think the world revolves around you. That you are some kind of special. No doubt a belief fostered by your parents, your grandparents, your youth soccer league coaches, your elementary school teachers, and your gang of ne'er-do-well peers. I'm sure you have a mantel full of trophies and awards to prove your case. But the fact is, Iggy, that growing up an Ignoramus does not give you an excuse for your loutish behavior.
Perhaps you did not think that the Walmart security cameras would catch you pounding the bejeebers out of my Tahoe. That bystanders would call you out on the loud thumping you gave my rear passenger door. And most certainly, Iggy, you did not realize that I was sitting inside.
Yes, it is difficult to control your large driver's-side door with your cell phone jammed to your ear with your left hand. I'm sure your excuse is that you have a sensory processing disorder. That you can't cross the midline of your body. So controlling that heavy door with your right hand was next to impossible. You probably receive a disability check for this little-known affliction. Had you only switched the phone to your right hand, you could have easily curtailed that slam with your left hand. Oops! I forgot. You can't cross your midline. So you couldn't transfer that phone to the other hand when you needed to open your car door. And I certainly wouldn't expect you to get off the phone in order to get into your car and back out of that space and drive away.
Oh, yes. That was me that you heard screaming, "What's your problem?" immediately after the thump. Uh huh. That was me you saw glaring at you through my tinted window into yours. I'm the reason you visibly jerked when you realized that you had been caught. Why you started that car right up and gassed it out of the parking space, narrowly missing an old man. My fault, I'm sure, that you made a young man yank his daughter out of harm's way like that dog-walker in National Lampoon's Vacation, when Chevy Chase fell asleep behind the wheel of The Family Truckster, and sped down the off ramp in St. Louis.
And it was me, Iggy, who wrote down your license plate number in case the damage turned out to be noticeable when I had a chance to carefully open my Tahoe's door between factory settings without touching the car next to me.
See You in Court, Perhaps...