The Anonymous And The Automotive

I keep seeing those cars with the Hannibal Lecter face masks over their grill, you know the ones, they've got a leather cover that just looks like it should have a gimp zip at the front.
I guess they're for keeping bug guts off the nose of your pristine new car, I've never bothered to definitively find out. For all I know behind each and every leather facade is a mounted rocket launcher and one day the Glorious V8 Collective is going to rise up, overthrow parliament (with rockets!) and declare every weekend Grand Prix weekend until we run out of petrol and/or grid girls.

And you know what? I think I'd be OK with that as long as one of the vows made in our glorious new republic is to hunt down and severely punish the self-appointed parking critiquing militia. Those people who have spawned across the developed world en masse. The ones who keep pre-cut stack of photocopied notes in their glovebox to stick under the windscreen wipers of anyone whose parking prowess does not meet their exacting anonymous standards.

There is nothing more refreshing after fighting your way out of a packed supermarket out to the packed parking lot where the positions of the cars in the spaces on either side of you had forced you to park on a slight angle than finding a badly drawn cartoon of Mickey Mouse flipping you the bird and telling you to go f*#k yourself because the original cars have left and one of the drivers who took their place has decided to share with you their opinion on the matter.
These are the kind of people who probably also pop anonymous notes into peoples' letterboxes about how the world would be such a better place for everyone if you could do something about the leaves your tree is dropping onto the footpath and nature strip. Because once you've started writing anonymous notes it is apparently very hard to stop. They probably perfected their craft whilst living in a sharehouse where they would leave notes for you on the fridge, in the fridge, stuck to your bedroom door, pushed under your bedroom door, in the bathroom, in the laundry... well basically everywhere, rather than actually speak to you because well then they might not get to feel that rapturous self-righteous glow and you might ruin the whole thing by disagreeing, pointing out that they're being a wanker and completely breaking the flow of their diatribe.

This is the kind of thing that really would be best addressed by a rocket launcher. Programmed to go off on anybody who touches your windscreen wipers without having entered the deactivation code.
This may take out a few parking inspectors or rave advertisers as well but... well... the Glorious V8 Collective was probably going to get around to them next in any case.