My Number-One-with-a-Bullet Hot Button is if you park in my parking. At my last job, I used to have an Assigned parking space in the parking lot, and if I rolled in all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, rarin’ to go get ’em in my workaday world, singin’ along to something fun on the radio, lookin’ forward to that first cuppa office coffee, man, if I saw a car in my Designated and Numbered and Assigned space, a film of blood would descend over my eyes and I would quickly execute a blocking procedure, parking my 1996 Civic (so you know I don’t give a fuck) sideways directly behind the car in my space, like an inch away, and then, with rage-trembling hands, I would write my phone number on a piece of paper and shove it between the trim and the glass at the bottom of the driver-side window, and then I would look around, three hundred and 60 degrees, with my eyes bulging outta my skull and my chest heaving, ready to attack. WHO PARKED IN MY PARKING?!? ARRGH!!!