Monsters-In-Law: Insufferable Squared

Monsters-In-Law: Insufferable Squared

Wednesday was just the turbulence. Yesterday was the crash landing.

The morning started deceptively calm — the way the air goes still before a tornado chews through a neighborhood. The husband and wife emerged from the guest room already apologizing, which is the international sign for “a narcissist is nearby.”

That narcissist arrived in my kitchen at 9:12 AM.

She floated in like a self-appointed queen — a flawlessly styled redhead draped in fabrics expensive enough to come with security tags. Her posture alone could file taxes in the highest bracket. Her expression suggested my home had personally offended her sometime in the past.

The Guilt-Trip Origin Story

Weeks ago, when the couple asked if it would be okay to bring her along — “Otherwise she’ll be alone for the holiday” — it sounded compassionate. Human. Kind.

Today made the truth painfully obvious.

They hadn’t invited her. They’d been guilted into bringing her.

Not because she was lonely. Because she weaponized loneliness.

She didn’t “join” their holiday. She attached herself like an emotional barnacle.

---

Act I: The House Inspection

She scanned my living room with the cold precision of an art critic forced to evaluate student work. “Oh,” she said. “This is… cozy.”

“Cozy” meaning “beneath her.” “Cozy” meaning “how quaint for someone like you.” “Cozy” meaning “I hate everything I see, but I’m polite enough to pretend I don’t.”

Projection started immediately:

“I’d never say anything negative about someone’s home.”
She said, while saying negative things about someone’s home.

The wife apologized. The husband apologized. For her mother’s existence. Honestly? Valid.

---

Act II: The Kitchen Takeover

She entered the kitchen and immediately began criticizing everything that breathed.

• “You’re using THAT knife?”
• “You season before you taste?”
• “Hmm. That’s… bold.”
• “We don’t chop vegetables that large in our family.”
• “Oh sweetheart… you tried.”

Every compliment was a weapon. Every correction a condemnation.

Then the triangulation began:

“Morghan, don’t you think the turkey looks a touch dry?”
“Morghan, maybe you can show her a better technique.”
“Morghan, this must be how you usually host.”

I declined my audition for her chaos cult.

The only thing in this world saltier than this woman is the Dead Sea.

---

Act III: Thanksgiving Dinner — The Final Boss Fight

She seated herself at the head of the table like she’d paid the mortgage that month.

One bite of turkey. One long, theatrical pause.

“Oh… well… this is… different.”

The wife apologized. The husband apologized. Somewhere, the turkey apologized from beyond the grave.

She judged every dish as if Thanksgiving were an audition and she alone held the golden buzzer. “My son prefers it cooked properly.” “You can taste the effort.” “This is acceptable for a casual holiday, I suppose.”

By dessert, the air was vibrating. The wife looked ready to cry or burn something down. The husband was emotionally buffering. The mother-in-law looked satisfied — the villain finishing her monologue.

Sunday she leaves. And peace will return to my home like a long-overdue refund.

Diagnosis (Dx)

A malignant cluster of narcissistic pathologies, including:

• Extreme Entitlement Disorder
• Compassion Deficiency Syndrome
• Projection with Olympic Accuracy
• Triangulation Addiction
• Backhanded Compliment Tourette’s
• Holiday Narcissism
• Humility Intolerance
• Salt Levels Measured in Dead Sea Units

Treatment (Rx)

• Immediate administration of Sit Down and Shut Up
• Empathy rehabilitation
• Exposure therapy: being told “no” repeatedly
• Humility injections
• Boundary enforcement reinforced with steel
• Kitchen bans for public safety
• 30-day residential narcissistic detox

Moral

If you see ANY part of yourself in this:

Fix it.
Don’t be this person.
Stop making others apologize for your behavior.
If rooms go tense when you enter them — congratulations, you’re the problem.

#HolidayMadness #DomesticDisasters #FamilyFriction #AsshatOfTheDay #EtiquetteEviscerations #SocialMalfunctions #GuestBehaviorGoneWrong #DumbDecisionsDaily

Labels: Domestic Disasters, Asshat of the Day, Etiquette Eviscerations, Social Malfunctions, Holiday Madness, Family Friction, Guest Behavior Gone Wrong

Terminal Turbulence: The Pre-Holiday Edition

Terminal Turbulence: The Pre-Holiday Edition

Yesterday, I was tasked with picking up some friends from the airport. I was running a bit late — which, on the day before Thanksgiving, is functionally the same as being on time. There had been a pile-up on the freeway, the kind of pile-up you see when an entire stadium empties into a parking lot after a pro-football championship game. Nothing moved. People honked at absolutely nothing. Every lane behaved like it had its own foreign policy.

I messaged the couple to explain the delay.
They were understanding.
Gracious, even.

But then there was her.

The husband’s mother.

She stepped off the escalator wearing tailored luxury and a scowl that could sour milk. A perfectly polished redhead, styled within an inch of her life, radiating the kind of Mother-in-Law Energy that makes small animals hide under furniture. The universe didn’t dare muss a single hair on her head — but it absolutely mussed her mood.

The moment she learned I hadn’t been waiting curbside an hour before their plane landed, she reacted like I’d committed a federal offense. “A proper host arrives early,” she declared, as if announcing a verdict. The wife gave me a sympathetic look — the kind women give one another when silently acknowledging that a tyrant is present.

The arrivals lane was its own special form of hell: cars stopping wherever they pleased, hazard lights blinking like distress beacons, people wandering through traffic holding emotional support lattes. It was the same chaos playing out in airports across the country yesterday — millions of people all convinced the universe should reorganize itself just for them.

When the wife reached for her suitcase, the mother-in-law intercepted. “No, dear, let him do it,” she said, in a tone usually reserved for toddlers with scissors. The wife stepped back. The husband lifted the suitcase. The mother-in-law nodded with smug approval — the Executive Director of Hidden Contempt.

In the car, she settled into the back seat like an HOA president inspecting violations. She didn’t speak much, but every breath, every hum, every pointed sigh communicated criticism. She corrected my driving with her breathing. She corrected the wife’s small talk with her eyebrows. She corrected the husband’s existence with pure disappointment.

By the time we merged onto the freeway, I’d already mapped out what today — Thanksgiving Day — would look like for this unfortunate couple. She wasn’t just a houseguest; she was a storm front. A cold, entitled weather system settling over the entire holiday.

Yesterday was just the turbulence.
Today is the crash landing.
Tomorrow, I’ll write about the wreckage.

Diagnosis

Entitlement spike, superiority complex flare-up, and punctuality fundamentalism caused by holiday travel and a lifelong inability to tolerate inconvenience.

Treatment

Boundary reinforcement, selective hearing, and a reminder that freeway pile-ups do not rearrange themselves for difficult personalities.

Moral

Some travelers bring gratitude. Others bring psychological warfare wrapped in expensive fabric.

#HolidayChaos #AirportInsanity #ThanksgivingTravel #MotherInLawEnergy #PreHolidayPanic #DumbDecisionsDaily

Grocery Store Gremlins and the Holiday Apocalypse

Grocery Store Gremlins and the Holiday Apocalypse

My apologies for the silence. The Thanksgiving chaos swallowed me whole, chewed thoughtfully, and spit me back out sometime this morning. I’m functional enough now to resume chronicling the public’s seasonal unraveling, while we wait for the late-afternoon and evening holiday festivities to begin.

The Pre-Holiday Grocery Gauntlet

This week, I watched the city’s busiest grocery store buckle under the pressure of a holiday no one seems capable of preparing for in advance. The customers looked overwhelmed, irritated, and vaguely betrayed by the concept of other people existing, but the workers — god help them — were the ones actually holding the entire circus upright.

Every employee I saw was doing three jobs at once: stocking, straightening, and absorbing emotional debris from strangers who clearly believe grocery shopping is a competitive sport. Meanwhile, customers moved through the aisles like spatial awareness was optional programming.

A stock worker rolled out a cart of canned goods. Before he could fully stop moving, customers were already reaching into boxes, plucking items from his hands, and blocking him in as they rummaged through inventory that wasn’t even on the shelf yet. He didn’t argue; he simply stepped back with the resigned look of someone who knows that resistance will only lead to HR paperwork.

In produce, an employee tried to refill apples while a woman nudged her aside with her cart to grab “just one thing.” The worker didn’t react. She didn’t have the luxury. She simply continued working with the quiet determination of someone who has survived enough holiday seasons to know that personal space is more of a theory than a practice.

A man in the spice aisle stared at a jar labeled “Sage” like it was an unsolved riddle. He asked an employee if it was the right kind of sage. She confirmed it twice. He still wasn’t fully convinced. Sometimes the label isn’t the problem — the reading is.

The bread aisle collapsed entirely. A woman demanded a specific type of fresh roll the store had sold out of hours earlier, sighed dramatically when told they were gone, then immediately asked a second employee to confirm it — because apparently truth is only valid when delivered by two separate witnesses.

One shopper left their cart sideways across the aisle to take a phone call, forcing everyone else to squeeze around it like contestants on a low-budget obstacle course. When an employee nudged it an inch to clear the path, the shopper glared at them as if they’d just reposessed her car.

At the deli counter, customers floated around like they were waiting for divine intervention. Numbers were called repeatedly into the void while people insisted they were next — even when the number in their hand suggested otherwise. One man waved off his turn entirely because he “wasn’t ready yet,” despite having waited long enough to memorize the rotation of the rotisserie chickens.

Checkout wasn’t much better. Cashiers handled expired coupons, incorrect assumptions, and customers shocked that groceries still cost money. Through all of it, they worked with steady efficiency — the kind you only see in people who understand that their shift has an end time, and their sanity does not.

The workers weren’t just running a grocery store. They were maintaining the fragile structure of society during its annual collapse, keeping shelves stocked and the peace intact while customers behaved like the cranberry sauce shortage was a personal attack.

Diagnosis

A complete collapse of spatial awareness, self-regulation, and basic empathy triggered by mild seasonal pressure. Symptoms include aisle-blocking, cart-abandoning, label-ignoring, and treating employees like stress relief valves.

Treatment

Mandatory public retraining in “How Not to Be a Menace”: wait your turn, don’t touch stock carts, don’t interrogate workers about items the store has never carried, and try the revolutionary act of saying “thank you.”

Moral

If your holiday meal makes it to the table intact, thank the workers. They’re the only reason the grocery store hasn’t collapsed into anarchy.

#HolidayChaos #GroceryStoreGremlins #ThanksgivingRush #RetailReality #HumanBehaviorStudy #DumbDecisionsDaily

The Self-Help Hostage Situation

The Self-Help Hostage Situation

I stopped into Barnes & Noble after the outlet mall nearly chewed through the last thread of my sanity. The place was a zoo — literal herds of shoppers migrating from rack to rack with all the urgency of tranquilized buffalo. By the time I escaped, I needed quiet. I needed stillness. And I needed caffeine more than oxygen.

So I headed straight for the café and took my usual spot: one of the small two-top tables along the railing overlooking the store. My latte steamed beside me. Peace was possible — or so I thought.

Then I heard it. A voice. Not a normal voice. A projected, booming, over-enunciated voice belonging to the kind of man who believes he's delivering a keynote speech every time he opens his mouth.

I glanced into the Self-Help and Metaphysical section.

That's where I saw him.

A man in a bold, vividly patterned dashiki stood at a diagonal angle in front of a yoga-pants woman who looked like she had wandered in for a scented candle and some affirmation cards. His hair was long and unbrushed, his beard determined to unionize, and the patchouli radiating off him was so strong it nearly developed sentience.

He was talking. She was enduring.

“...the whole PROBLEM,” he boomed, “is that people think buying a book is the same as pursuing truth. But Jung would laugh — LAUGH — at the reductionism people accept these days!”

She clutched her book to her chest like a flotation device. Her eyes were wide in a helpless, doe-eyed panic — the universal look of “Why is this happening to me?”

She tried to step around him — a hesitant, hopeful inch — but he shifted without missing a syllable, accidentally blocking her escape like a rogue pinball machine bumper, redirecting her right back into metaphysical captivity.

“And crystals,” he continued, “are COMPLETELY misunderstood by the wellness-industrial complex! People buy them without ANY awareness of their symbolic historical weight!”

She hadn’t spoken once. Not a single word. Every micro-attempt at a sentence was steamrolled by his ongoing dissertation.

From my table at the café rail, I watched the whole thing unfold. Every gesture. Every unsolicited declaration. Every blocked escape route.

Some people study human behavior by choice. I study it because the universe will not stop handing me material.

---

Diagnosis

• Unsolicited Metaphysical Mansplaining
• Intellectual Monologue Disorder
• Patchouli-Induced Hostage Situation

Treatment

• Ask before lecturing strangers
• Maintain one aisle of distance in Self-Help zones
• Avoid blocking escape routes while discussing Jung

Moral

• If enlightenment requires trapping someone between a bookshelf and your opinions, it's not enlightenment — it's bad manners.

#SelfHelpHostage #BookstoreFails #DashikiGuy #MetaphysicalMeltdown #LackOfSelfAwareness #CaughtInTheAisle #OvertalkersAnonymous

The Rugrat Rehearsal

A Five-Part Symphony in Shriek Minor

1. The Lobby Track Star

It’s the shriek that hits first — the high-pitched screech of a child somewhere between meltdown and mating call, echoing through the marble lobby of a local bank.

Three laps in and he’s already clipped two purse straps and made eye contact with a security guard who’s reconsidering his career. The adult responsible is physically present but spiritually in another dimension, scrolling their phone and whispering “Jason, no...” like it’s a Gregorian chant.

When the child scaled the check-writing counter and unleashed a howl that cracked open the vestibule’s auto-door, no one moved. We all just absorbed the secondhand chaos, eyes fixed forward, like a lineup of trauma-survivors in business casual.

Diagnosis:
Chronic Boundary Blindness with Passive Containment Syndrome.
Adult present, but engagement absent.
Child exhibiting spatial dominance with zero correction.
Social contract ignored in favor of screen time.
Silent crowd participation through hostage-level tension.

Treatment:
Require public parenting licenses with renewal exams every 18 months.
Install noise-triggered sprinkler systems in marble-floor lobbies.
Establish real-time fines for excessive indoor laps per child.
Revoke latte privileges until eye contact is re-established.
Confiscate phones after third “Jason, no” without follow-through.

---

2. The Dentist’s Waiting Room Wrestling Match

Two kids. One broken bead table. Zero rules. The pediatric dentist’s waiting room has become a full-contact arena, complete with chair vaulting and Lego-based injuries.

Parents? Fully engaged — with each other. Loud conversation about self-care and the “importance of letting them just be wild” while other children are ducking for cover.

The front desk staff has retreated into their paperwork fortress. One hygienist fake-sips her coffee for nine full minutes, eyes locked on the door like it might open into early retirement.

Diagnosis:
Environmental Desensitization in Multi-Child Systems.
Parents have normalized chaos into background noise.
Peer-zone aggression dismissed as “kids being kids.”
No de-escalation attempt, just audible exhaustion.
Dental staff quietly entering witness protection.

Treatment:
Pre-appointment screening for shared space readiness.
One adult per child ratio enforced in play areas.
Timeout booths with noise-canceling walls for parental reflection.
Free counseling for receptionists who survive these visits.
Build waiting room panic buttons disguised as magazines.

---

3. The Grocery Cart Megaphone

A child in a shopping cart is yelling “POOPY!” into a plastic toy microphone — repeatedly, rhythmically, with impressive projection. The adult laughs and pulls out their phone to record.

Other shoppers freeze. Some flinch. One visibly questions their birth control choices. Meanwhile, the chant continues at full volume, echoing off the cereal aisle like a deranged town crier.

The adult, still giggling, mumbles, “He’s such a performer,” as the child launches into his fifth encore. Somewhere behind the deli counter, a butcher contemplates retirement.

Diagnosis:
Parental Applause Conditioning with Echo Amplification.
Child learns that volume = attention = approval.
Audience encouraged through laughter instead of redirection.
Boundaries replaced with viral video potential.
Strangers forced to participate in auditory hostage scenario.

Treatment:
Ban toy microphones unless accompanied by a mute button and headphones.
Social media clout revoked at 90 decibels or higher.
Parent must complete three public apology laps per “POOPY!” broadcast.
Designated “Quiet Lanes” for customers with trauma and taste.
Mandatory training in the difference between cute and cruel.

---

4. The Playground Peacefaker

Johnny is pushing smaller kids down the slide, throwing mulch like confetti, and roaring in faces like a tiny, barefoot warlord. His adult calmly offers, “Johnny, sweetheart… remember to use gentle hands…” with the volume and urgency of a candlelight vigil.

When another parent approaches after their child gets shoved, the response is immediate: “Oh… he’s very sensitive to tone. Timmy might have startled him.” Johnny is now yelling at a tree.

The cycle continues. Johnny terrorizes. Adult deflects. Other parents begin plotting. A juice pouch explodes. Justice does not arrive.

Diagnosis:
Deflection Reflex with Delusional Parenting Syndrome.
Adult unable to distinguish empathy from avoidance.
Other children treated as test dummies for Johnny’s growth.
Conflict reframed to absolve the aggressor every time.
Gaslighting repackaged as mindfulness.

Treatment:
Every passive parent must attend Playground Court, judged by other moms.
Kid-on-kid altercations require on-site review and timeout citations.
Psychological evaluations triggered by “He’s just expressive” defense.
Install park signs: “Empathy ≠ Exemption From Rules.”
Disarm the phrase “They’re just tired” with taser-level sarcasm.

---

5. The Department Store Demolition Crew

It was the thud that snapped attention — a clearance rack hit broadside by a tiny shoulder missile. Three children, loose and thriving, stormed the department store with all the subtlety of a marching band in a library.

One flung a compact across cosmetics and screamed “POWDER BOMB!” Another spun a rolling rack until it fell. The third used a scarf display as a jungle gym and began chanting nonsense like it was a summoning ritual.

Their adult trailed behind, unbothered, sipping something and scrolling with a vague smile. “They just have a lot of energy,” she offered, while a clerk quietly Googled how much notice Macy’s requires for resignation.

Diagnosis:
Willful Neglect Syndrome with Coordinated Chaos Disorder.
Adult present in body, missing in function.
Children operate as a unit with no internal brakes.
Retail staff visibly calculating career changes.
"Creative energy" becomes a shield for destruction.

Treatment:
Mandatory curbside-only access for repeat offenders.
Tether system: if your kid outruns a mannequin, you lose your cart.
Retail hazard pay increased every time bras hit the ceiling.
Shopping becomes a privilege revoked by poor parenting math.
Every broken display earns the adult a fitting room lecture from a manager named Brenda.

---

Moral:
There’s no such thing as a “free spirit” when someone else is paying the cleanup bill. Children learn by modeling — and some adults are teaching them to be walking red flags with juice boxes.

Hashtags: #parentingfails #publicmeltdowns #asshatoftheday #morghanobserves #socialdecay #retailwreckage

Outdoor Outrage, Asshat of the Day, Etiquette Eviscerations, Public Pestilence

The Abandoned Hair Apocalypse

by Morghan Rhiatt — unwilling chronicler of America’s follicular unraveling

I’ve seen many baffling things in my life — human behavior is a never-ending talent show of “you cannot possibly be serious right now” — but nothing, NOTHING, unsettles me quite like the abandoned hair epidemic sweeping across this nation.

It is EVERYWHERE.

Parking lots.
Sidewalks.
Intersections.
Dollar General.
Target.
Gas stations.
Beaches — the BEACHES, dear God.

Hair. Just… there.
Detached from its host.
Splayed dramatically.
Looking exhausted, offended, and vaguely sentient.

The first time I saw it, I thought,
“Eh, weird trash.”
But the second time?
The third time?
The eighteenth time this WEEK?

No.
No, something is wrong.
Something is very wrong.

Because once you SEE abandoned hair,
you see it EVERYWHERE.

Hairpieces are out here living their best lives, making independent decisions like teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

Naturally, I have questions.
So many questions.

---

I. THE QUESTIONS (and they only get worse)

1. Who is shedding hairstyles like they’re molting snakes?

Is this seasonal? Are we in shedding season?

2. What level of stress causes someone to abandon an ENTIRE hair unit??
You don’t just remove a wig like a coat.

3. Is the hair ESCAPING willingly?
Has it seen too much?

4. Why do abandoned pieces always look like deceased woodland creatures?

5. How is the bun STILL INTACT?
Perfect. Round. Unbothered.

6. Are they mating?
I’ve seen two tumbleweaves merge.

7. Why are they never in normal places?
Always dead-center in life-or-death traffic zones.

8. Why does EVERY ONE OF THEM LOOK FRESHLY ESCAPED?

9. Are they alive?
Some reach. Some curl. Some nap.

10. Why does no one EVER pick them up?
Even janitors avoid them.

11. Are they migrating?
I’ve seen tumbleweaves roll with purpose.

12. Why do toupees LOOK like they died tragically?

13. Are there hair drop points?
Some placements feel ritualistic.

14. Is this an offering?
Appeasing asphalt deities?

15. WHO is uninstalling them so cleanly?
This is professional-level removal.

16. ARE THESE BEING YEETED OUT OF MOVING VEHICLES?

---

II. THE LOCATIONS

Parking lots. Their natural ecosystem.
Sidewalks. Urban migration routes.
Intersections. Tumbleweaves lying in wait.
Dumpsters. Hair that has given up.
Gas pumps. Always gas pumps.

The Aquatic Variant

The ocean has REJECTED wigs.

I once saw a hairpiece wash ashore like a shipwreck survivor — wet, flattened, emotionally altered.

The Atlantic spit it out like,
“Absolutely not. Return to land.”

The Windshield Wiper Incident

This was not abandonment.
This was a message.

Someone tucked a whole hairpiece under a car’s wiper — not dropped, not blown, but PLACED.

That hairpiece said:
“You know what you did. I see you.”
“This is your final warning.”

---

III. WHY WOMEN LOSE HAIRPIECES

• The Sweat-Rage Threshold
• Clip-ins that surrender mid-hug
• The Wig Cap Mutiny
• Children
• Club-night heat + regret
• Breakup meltdowns
• Oceanic theft
• The wig that CHOSE freedom

---

IV. WHY MEN LOSE HAIRPIECES

• Denial + wind
• The itchy scalp snap
• Sweat betrayal
• Rearview mirror overconfidence
• Sneeze propagation
• Heat rage
• The Bedroom Incident (no comment)
• Quiet resignation

---

V. WHAT PEOPLE THINK WHEN THEY SEE ABANDONED HAIR

Women: “What happened to her??”
Men: “Babe… something died.”
Children: “Can I touch it??”
DoorDash drivers: “I’m running it over.”
Everyone: “Don’t touch it.”

---

VI. THE HAIRPOCALYPSE

This is where things escalate.

I have seen:

• Three abandoned hairpieces clustered like a meeting
• A braid coiled like a snake
• A toupee perched like a lookout
• A bun centered like a territorial marker
• Tumbleweaves rolling with intent
• A clump hiding under a dumpster like it witnessed a crime

These are patterns.
These are routes.
These are behaviors.

I fear the hairpieces are evolving — coordinating.

The windshield wiper incident was not a fluke.
It was a warning shot.

---

DIAGNOSIS

Chronic Follicle Abandonment Disorder
Toupee Traumatic Ejection Syndrome
Wandering Weave Phenomenon
Clustered Keratin Unrest
Public Shedding Without Consent

---

TREATMENT

Secure your hair like your social security number.
Avoid emotional wig-removal events.
Do NOT discard synthetic organisms.
Keep a five-foot radius.
If it moves on its own — run.

---

MORAL

If your hairpiece has a richer travel history or stronger survival instincts than you…
it’s time to reevaluate your attachment strategy.

#AbandonedHairApocalypse #DumbDecisionsDaily #ParkingLotHair #Tumbleweaves #HairpieceMigration #ToupeeTrauma #WeaveEscape #FollicularFails #PublicShedding #MorghanRhiattObserves

The Side Mirror Stalker

 

Side Mirror Stalker

aka: The Parking Lot Pressure Creep (and Other Clingy Vehicular Menaces)

I don’t ask much from humanity — just functional blinkers, basic spatial awareness, and the common sense to not hover like a caffeinated mosquito in my blind spot.

But then comes the Side Mirror Stalker. The passive-aggressive parasite of public driving. The wheeled barnacle who doesn’t want to pass you — just linger. Forever. Like a fart in an elevator.

And oh, do they have variants.

🚗 Variant 1: The Highway Hitchhiker

This clingy creature locks onto your rear quarter panel at highway speeds like you’re tow-hauling their emotional baggage. You speed up? They do too. Slow down? Oh look, they’re still there. Not overtaking. Not fading back. Just… matching your soul. Hovering in your blind spot like they’re skitching their way through Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater: Life Edition.

Diagnosis: Lane Shadowing Addiction
Treatment: Cut the cord. Go find your own cruise control.
Moral: You’re not co-piloting. You’re loitering at 70mph.

🛞 Variant 2: The Merge Saboteur

You flick your blinker. Check your mirrors. Make your move. But they see it. And suddenly — they accelerate. Because if anyone’s going to take that lane, it damn sure won’t be you.

Diagnosis: Merge Derangement Syndrome
Treatment: A sedative and a traffic therapist.
Moral: If your gas pedal only works when someone else needs room, you’re the problem.

🅿️ Variant 3: The Spot Vulture

You’re clearly waiting for someone to back out. Reverse lights are on. You’ve signaled. You’re parked a respectful distance away. Then creeps the Stalker — slow-rolling past your passenger window, eyeing your claim like it’s beachfront property in Malibu. You make eye contact, and suddenly they’re “just turning around.”

Diagnosis: Entitled Circleback Syndrome
Treatment: Reality-based directional awareness.
Moral: You don’t get to pre-steal someone else’s patience.

🚷 Variant 4: The Crosswalk Cop

You’re backing out. Mirrors clear. Reverse lights on. Then — a pedestrian appears. Not in the crosswalk. Not walking. Just standing there. Pointing. Waving you out like a traffic cop during rush hour who moonlights as a mime. Are they helping? Are they judging? Who knows. Either way, they’re blocking your escape route with exaggerated facial expressions and the energy of a substitute teacher on power trip day.

Diagnosis: Proximity Hero Syndrome
Treatment: A cone of shame and a pamphlet on pedestrian boundaries.
Moral: You’re not helping if you’re in the way. That’s not guidance. That’s sabotage.

💢 Variant 5: The Parking Lot Pressure Creep

You’re in your car. Seatbelt off. Just taking a moment to breathe, dig for sunglasses, queue up your playlist — whatever. Then suddenly, *they appear.* Hovering inches behind your bumper. Signal on. Car angled. Eyes locked.

They don’t give you room. They don’t back up. They just sit there. Glowering. Breathing through their mouth. Waiting for you to magically vanish so they can inherit your spot like it’s some kind of poorly documented timeshare.

When you don’t move fast enough? Oh, the drama:

Hands flailing in the air like they're astounded by your level of stupidity, complete with a derogatory hand gesture confirming they think you’re the problem causing the traffic jam.

Then — the second you manage to back out (after contorting like a forklift in a phone booth)? They swerve in like a stunned ferret. No wave. No acknowledgment. Just smug superiority and the righteous aura of someone who believes waiting five seconds is oppression.

Summary Diagnosis:

• Lane Commitment Avoidance Disorder
• Spatial Insecurity Syndrome
• Reverse-Block Reflex
• Inflated Spot Entitlement (ISE)
• Mirror Narcissism with Co-Pilot Complex

Treatment:

• Mandatory blind spot awareness training with a PowerPoint and live fire drill.
• Prescribed dose of spatial courtesy, 3x daily — or as directed by your local DMV therapist.
• Mirror meditation therapy: stare at your own reflection until you understand you're not the main character.

Moral:

If you can see them, but they can’t see you,
That’s not strategy — it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

If you want the spot, give the driver a shot —
At actually pulling out without triggering your insurance deductible.

#SideMirrorStalker #BlindSpotBarnacle #MergeSaboteur #ParkingLotPurgatory #LaneLeeches #EntitlementOnWheels #TonyHawkTailgateEdition #SituationalAwareness #EtiquetteEviscerations #Balldacity