When approaching your car in the school parking lot, you notice slabs of black ice packed into the wheel wells. If you decide to leave them there, the tires will surely rub against the ice slabs. This could prevent the tires from turning as far as they need to; and who knows, you might have to pull a U-ie in order to evade the cops. Your tags are expired, and quite frankly, you don't even like the cut of your jib.
Or the slabs could break off when you speed up to run that yellow at the corner of Broad and Cherry. You know if that were the case, Girl Scouts would be prancing on the sidewalk, trying to sell their economically downsized cookies. And when your back tires would run over the slabs, they'd kick up the fallen ice, which would then smack the little girls in the backs of their heads. Then where would you be?
You'd be banned from directly purchasing Thin Mints, that's for sure. And you can't live like that. So you decide to kick off the ice before starting your car. But it's packed solid. You drive your heel into the ice until both are about to give. One last blow. The ice falls and slides under the car. Time to go home; one less worry on your mind.
When you press the unlock button on your keyless remote, nothing happens. Did the remote get wet? Was it the snow? You press it again. The car remains locked. That's when you notice women's sunglasses on the front seat. And you remember you're not a woman. And this isn't the orange lot where you parked your car. It's the brown lot. Only one thing to do from here. Say, "Oh, I must have forgot it back in my office," as if anyone (save for the owner of this car) would care. As if you know what the "it" is. Then you return to school and wait in the men's bathroom. After a reasonable and completely arbitrary amount of time, you go to your car in the orange lot and drive home.