I can think of at least a few people thinking, "Become?"
Past asshattery (asshaberdashery?) aside, what I mean is that I have become the very thing which I once hated with a passion: the parking lot asshat. You know, the guy who parks across two spaces in the grocery store parking lot? The one you curse when you're looking for a spot -- or even when you're not looking you just curse out of general principle?
I was not immediately an asshat after I got the Camaro, a piece of property for which I still have an inordinate amount of excitement and adoration. In my zeal to maintain a dent-less and scratch-free paint job, my general approach has been to park as far away from the entrance of any place I go, on the theory that if I park in a distant section with about 50 empty spaces around me, then I won't have to worry about dickwads slamming doors into my car.
And, almost without fail, every time I do so, some asswipe in a 20-year-old fucking Honda beater or Toyota minivan with Hello Kitty stickers has parked right next to me, completely oblivious to the fifty fucking other spots available not only within the immediate area, but right next to the fucking entrance.
Seriously, what the fuck is up with you people? Is there some gene that causes your brain to fire off endorphins at the knowledge you're parking your shitty ass sludge-mobile right on top of any car that looks like it's been maintained with a modicum of care? Do you get hard when your clunker comes within inches of a car that's had more regularly scheduled oil changes than you have hairs on your calloused wide-berth ass?
(Obviously, when I say "you" I don't mean you. Unless you've shoved your grimy, faded, "Kerry 2004"-bumper-sticker-festooned Prius up my ass in a parking lot recently, in which case, yes, I mean you.)
Solution: Two parking spaces, thank you. It's not perfect, because I can't bring myself to take up two spaces in a crowded parking lot. I'm asshat with limits.