By a thoroughly fed-up citizen with a decent grasp of reality… Sort of.
Our neighborhood is the kind of place where you’d half expect to see a watercolor painter on every corner. It’s peaceful, leafy, and delightfully boring in the best way—until, that is, some cretin in a beat up car comes barreling down the main road and flings a McFlurry cup out of the window like he’s trying to win an Olympic medal in Litter Shot Put. Every week it’s the same—chip bags, soda bottles, the occasional chicken bone. I didn’t even know people still ate chicken like that, but there it is, fossilized in the ditch.
These passing vandals don’t even live here. They’re just cutting through on their way to some sad concrete apartment complex that probably has one washing machine for 40 units and a smell that could legally qualify as a biohazard. Meanwhile, we’re left picking up their debris like we’re extras in a post-apocalyptic clean-up crew.
And just when you think the real world couldn’t get more surreal—enter our two favorite billionaires: Mr. Twitter and Mr. Facebook. Now, you’d think if you had more money than most countries, you’d be on a beach, sipping something cold with an umbrella in it, listening to the sea and occasionally saying, “Ahh.” But no. These two have apparently decided that being obscenely rich isn’t enough. No, now they want to fight. In a ring. Like gladiators. Only without any muscle tone, skill, or… coordination.
Let’s be honest—individually, neither one of them could fight their way out of a wet paper bag. A particularly moist napkin could probably take them both. But there they are, talking about jiu-jitsu and MMA and training regimens like we’ve all forgotten that one of them once got winded jogging up a stage, and the other panics when he loses cell signal. What are they going to do, hurl Wi-Fi routers at each other?
And then, because billionaires have apparently declared war on sanity, Mr. Amazon—who looks increasingly like a shaved Bond villain with a Prime subscription—decided to launch a rocket. Into space. In a rocket that suspiciously looks like a chrome-plated gentleman’s sausage. With, wait for it… California Gurl. Yes. The woman who once sang about kissing girls and fireworks is now, apparently, part of the space program. Why fix the housing crisis or do something mundane like ending hunger when you can hurl a pop star into low Earth orbit for what I can only assume is a mixture of brand synergy, midlife crisis, and a desperate attempt to impress Mr. Twitter.
Meanwhile, the Kardashians still exist. No one really knows why. They’re just… there. Like glitter on a greeting card. Somehow unavoidable, mildly irritating, and impossible to clean off culture. They’ve got more seasons than winter, more followers than some religions, and I still don’t know what they do. But if they vanished tomorrow, the Earth might spin a little straighter.
Now how about unsolicited communication? Every day my phone rings with someone trying to sell me something I neither want, need, nor understand. “Would you like to refinance your donkey insurance?” No, Gerald, I wouldn’t. “We noticed your interest in home warranty services.” No, you didn’t. I was Googling whether raccoons can open jars. Leave me alone.
So there I was, enjoying a moment of peace, when the phone rings. On the line? A man with a voice steeped in curry, introducing himself as Richard Peters from the IRS. Right. Because nothing screams “American tax official” like an accent straight out of downtown Bangalore.
And get this—he says I owe thousands in back taxes, but it’s fine, because the IRS now accepts Target gift cards. TARGET. GIFT. CARDS. What’s next? Settling medical bills with Chuck E. Cheese tokens?
Honestly, anyone running that scam deserves a gift—from a Reaper drone. The kind that doesn’t beep. It just flies over quietly and kaboom—your fake call center’s now a crater.
And no, I didn’t send Richard his gift card. I suggested he go verify his identity by chewing on a live microwave.
It’s like we’re living in a badly written sitcom, and the script has been outsourced to someone who thinks Americans are dumb enough to believe the government is collecting taxes through coupon codes.
And if you do want something—say, a product you bought and would now like to fix—good luck. First, you speak to a robot named “Jamie” who insists on hearing your account number seventeen times. Then, if you’re lucky, you get transferred to a “specialist” who knows less about the item than your cat. Eventually, you just give up and decide to live with the broken toaster that now only browns the left side of the bread.
Let’s also spare a moment for fast food. Once the food of the people, now priced like it’s been aged in oak barrels and blessed by monks. You go to McDonald’s thinking you’ll grab a burger, and suddenly you’re paying $14.95 for something that tastes like compressed remorse. They’ve got menus that sound like vineyard tours—brioche buns, aioli, Angus beef. You’re still eating in your car next to a man with a neck tattoo of a dragon eating a taco.
And groceries! Don’t even get me started. Eggs—once the humble, reliable sidekick of breakfast—have apparently turned into golden Fabergé collectibles. I stood there the other day, staring at a dozen eggs priced like they’d been laid by hens on a diet of truffles and opera music. And everything else? Outrageous! A stick of butter now costs more than a small appliance with buttons and a manual. And no, I still refuse to buy anything “Made in China”—not because I’m picky, but because I’d rather deal with questionable prices than end up eating toothpaste-flavored biscuits made out of drywall and crushed dreams.
Then there’s the state of personal hygiene in public. Some folks have seemingly declared war on soap. You’ll be standing in line behind someone who smells like they’ve been trapped in a gym sock since 1992. And their pants—oh, their pants—dangling so low you can see their underwear brand, laundry instructions, and possibly their family history. I want to either yank them up or submit a zoning violation.
Health care is another joke. You book a doctor’s appointment. You don’t go to a doctor. You go to a man on a laptop with a bookshelf background that may or may not be virtual. He asks you questions you already answered on the form, tells you to drink water, then charges you $300. After insurance. And the medicine? One pharmacy quotes you $12. Another quotes $189. Same drug, same bottle, different universe. You end up driving to five pharmacies while praying your blood pressure doesn’t detonate before you find the discount.
And don’t even get me started on mechanics. You walk in for a simple oil change, and within minutes they emerge with a haunted look and a clipboard. “Sir, we found… something. If we don’t replace the catalytic sprocket valve and the flux capacitor housing immediately, the car may explode. That’ll be $1,200. Also, we need to keep it for four days and possibly perform a seance.”
Insurance companies? Greedy. Universities? Eye-watering tuition for degrees that come with a minor in crushing debt. Hospitals? You pay $5,000 for someone to put a sticker on your arm. Wall Street? They’re basically legal pirates in suits. The food industry? They’re putting sugar in broccoli at this point. And politicians? Oh, don’t get me started—they smile for the cameras, lie through their teeth, and couldn’t find integrity with both hands and a GPS. Greed isn’t just a problem now—it’s the entire business model.
And so I sit here, surrounded by empty chip bags, billionaires firing rockets out of boredom, and the lingering scent of disappointment, wondering: when do ordinary people finally catch a break? When does common sense roll out of bed, put on some pants on, and return to society? Just one day—one day—without a TikTok influencer licking a toad for followers, a spam call from “Richard” demanding Target gift cards, or some guy’s underpants winking at me from the paracetamol aisle at the pharmacy. Is that really too much to ask?
I don’t know. But if it doesn’t change soon, I’m buying a cabin, growing a beard, changing my name to Cletus Jedidiah Rattlesnake McCoy, III and pretending it’s 1983 forever.
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