I just made a pit stop at the grocery store on the way home from the bookstore.
At ten o'clock in the evening, the parking lot at Ingles is almost empty. There were maybe a dozen cars in the lot, all parked either on the far side of the lot (employees), or in the spots near the doors (customers). The empty spots were no further than three rows of cars away from the doors of the store--yet there were three cars parked directly by the doors, in the clearly marked "NO PARKING-FIRE LANE" zone right next to the building.
No wonder they now carry jeans at WalMart approaching triple-digit waist sizes. If you can't be bothered to park your gorram truck in a proper parking spot twenty-five yards away from the door, and you absolutely have to hop right from the truck's cabin through the automatic doors onto the electric cart intended for handicapped folks, then you win some sort of prize for lazy, and you fully deserve the public humiliation when they have to cut down the walls of your bedroom so that the industrial lifting equipment can get your fat ass out of the house.
Put down the frakkin' Nachos, and at least walk a few dozen yards to the trough. Seriously.