Or contortionists? Or just sadistic jokers? Why is it that no matter where I have my car parked, and no matter what size the eager young person who comes to take it is, I return to find my driver's seat placed in a position that only a midget contortionist could love?

I suppose there are several possibilities:

  • They're shorter than me. Well, maybe, but most of those I've handed the car to and even gotten it back from aren't noticeably so.
  • They're contortionists practicing when the job gets slow. Hmmm.
  • It is an article of valet parker faith that anyone who drives a car with electric seat adjustment needs to be taken down a peg or two.
  • They were having sex in my car, and needed to...ewww. Never mind. Scratch that. Oh, gross...
  • They are incapable of handling electric seat controls.
  • There is an EMP field in most garages, caused by flourescent lights, that drives seat controls wild.
  • They're desperately trying to avoid looking at the gigantic FNORD I have decaled across my windshield.
  • They think I keep hundred-dollar bills stuffed down the driver's seat edge.
  • Valet parking is actually a complicated plot to study humans, where brain-dazed valets hand our cars over to small grey aliens, who are actually the ones who engage gears and drive our beloved vehicles into the Testing Room. If cars could speak, they would cry at the horror witnessed there, of a mechanical evil that makes Jabba the Hutt's droid torture chamber seem like a nice refreshing oil bath. Actually, though, they are so traumatized by the experience that most of them have forgotten how to speak. Notice that those little voice reminder gadgets don't seem to work so well anymore?

...or, of course, they've just been napping in it and didn't have time to figure out where the seat had been. But somehow, that explanation falls flat.

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