By someone who used to be chill, but then you parked like a clown.
I’ve been watching people lately—just sitting back and observing the slow-motion car crash we call “society”—and I can’t decide whether the world is spiraling into the abyss, or if I’m simply becoming a grumpier, less tolerant version of myself. It used to be I had one pet peeve. A single, well-groomed annoyance. Now? I have a zoo. An entire Pet Peeve Safari Park. And all the animals are angry.
Let’s begin with the parking situation. Oh yes, the parking.
The other day, I was at a strip mall—you know the kind, where hope goes to die—and I noticed two cars parked right in front of a shop’s entrance. You’d think, “Ah, they’re probably picking something up quickly.” No. They were off. Engine running. Hazard blinkers on. No humans in sight. As if the blinking lights were some sort of divine permit that said, “Yes, I know I’m parked like a lawless ferret, but look! Flashy lights! So it’s fine!”
No, Tammy. It’s not fine. It just means you’re lazy. Too lazy to find a proper parking spot like the rest of us peasants. Too special to walk the 20 feet from an actual parking bay.
It gets worse.
At Publix, I witnessed a man park his pickup truck directly on one side of the pedestrian walkway, the very same place where people use to get from the lot to the shop. He just left it there like a beached whale and waltzed inside for a leisurely grocery run. The result? Chaos. Cars couldn’t pass, people with carts looked like they were trying to push them through a corn maze, and every shopper had to play a game of “guess what’s behind this blind spot.”
In my own neighborhood, it’s just as tragic. People park on the shoulders of the main road—the road used by dog walkers, old folks trying to get their steps in, and toddlers wobbling about in prams. These cars create blind spots you could hide a marching band in. It’s a miracle no one’s been flattened yet, but it’s coming. You can feel it. Like a sneeze you can’t quite get out.
And when you bring it up with the owners of said parked hazards? They say, “Well, walkers shouldn’t be walking there.”
Ah, yes. Let’s blame the people using their legs for not hovering two feet above the ground like ghosts. Selfish prats.
Then we’ve got Mr. Bicycle Rack Guy. This legend has a three-bike rack sticking out the back of his SUV like a medieval battering ram. Perfect height to decapitate a running child. And does he remove it when he’s not using it? No. Why? Because that would involve pressing one pin and lifting it out. But Bicycle Man can’t be bothered. Probably too busy reading inspirational quotes on Instagram.
And just when you think you’ve seen peak idiocy, there’s the glorious world of road rage.
Evidently, the second some people get behind the wheel, they turn into enraged mindless baboons. Screaming, honking, throwing hand gestures that look like interpretive dance routines. And let’s not forget the brake checkers.
A few weeks back, I was cruising along, minding my own business, when some battered car cuts me off while the driver’s too busy texting or swiping or playing Sudoku—who knows? So I gave him a polite “beep beep,” the internationally recognized signal for “Hey, wake up, you’re not alone on the road.”
Did he wave in apology? No. He slammed his brakes in front of me at 40 MPH. Nearly caused a pile-up. And then—get this—he got out of the car. Right there. Middle of the road. Like some dollar store Vin Diesel.
Unfortunately for him, he did this in front of the motor pool of Henrico County’s finest. Within moments, a half-dozen cops descended like hawks. The pudgy little road warrior tried to tell them I was the aggressor. So I handed over the dashcam footage.
Modern technology, meet justice.
He got arrested, charged with assault and a buffet of traffic violations, and handed a shiny invitation to court. God bless dashcams. And police who don’t take nonsense from men who think they’re starring in Fast & Furious: The Local Idiot Edition.
Now look, I get it. Most truck drivers are hardworking folks trying to get from point A to B without losing their minds. But there’s a subset—let’s call them Physics Deniers—who barrel down narrow roads in 40-ton death machines as if they’re driving go-karts. Newsflash: you can’t stop something that weighs more than a tank within two feet. You’re not in Mario Kart, Speedball Joe. Slow. Down.
And then there are the motorcyclists. The ones who think helmets are optional and lane lines are a suggestion. I’m not talking about every rider—some are sensible, respectful, responsible. But then you’ve got the clowns doing 90 while weaving through traffic, popping wheelies like they’re in some Red Bull stunt video. I’ve seen the aftermath. Bright young lives shattered because someone thought they were immortal. Guess what? You’re not.
And of course, how could we leave out the phone zombies? The ones texting, scrolling, tweeting, TikToking—all while doing 60 on a crowded highway. “It’s my choice!” they say. Yes. And your choice ends up in someone else’s ICU. Or worse.
And while we’re here—who could forget the sacred art of not using your signal lights? I mean really, is it that exhausting to nudge a little stalk up or down? Will it drain your energy reserves? Will it throw your horoscope off? Will it—Heaven forbid—impact your miserable lives in any measurable way? It’s a stick. You move it. We all know what you’re about to do. But no. You’d rather turn across three lanes of traffic without a whisper of warning, like some kind of vehicular ninja, leaving everyone else guessing whether you’re exiting the highway or just having a stroke.
It’s not clairvoyance school out here, people. It’s the road. Communicate.
Also, while we’re throwing bricks into the blender—let’s talk about people speeding on back roads. You know the type. Barreling down a quiet two-lane road, pretending they’re Dale Earnhardt gunning for pole position at Daytona—honestly, what do they think they’re going to achieve? Buddy, you’re not in NASCAR. And if you just pay some attention to reality, this isn’t the International Speedway. You’re in a 2007 Corolla tearing through a neighborhood where people are out walking their dogs and trying not to die.
And here’s the thing: They’re not even saving time. Maybe—maybe—they shave off 40 seconds if the planets align. But those 40 seconds? You could’ve had them if you just woke up a bit earlier. Or left five minutes before your usual “oh no I’m late again” panic. It’s not hard. It’s called being a grown-up and mature enough to have common sense.
Instead, they blast past kids on scooters and pensioners with walking sticks like they’re auditioning for a reboot of Mad Max: Suburban Drift. Absolutely brilliant. Nothing says “I peaked in high school” quite like doing 60 down a leafy cul-de-sac.
Accidents are no longer just fender benders. They’re life-altering catastrophes. All because someone needed to reply “lol” to a message that wasn’t even funny.
So yeah. Maybe I am getting grumpier with age. Or maybe—just maybe—we’re all getting a bit too comfortable being inconsiderate morons on the road.
Either way: Be careful out there. The zoo is open.
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A Kings 
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