Driving Rant

Driving is supposed to be simple. You get in the car, point A to point B, maybe throw on a fun song to kickstart the day. Windows down, coffee in hand, vibes immaculate. It should feel like a music video — you, the road, the sunshine. That’s how it should be.  But NOOOO…

Every morning my 30-minute commute turns into a live-action Darwin Awards. It’s the Hunger Games out there, except the prize is you get to live another day to pay rent.

The left lane? The passing lane? That’s dead. Forget it. It’s not for passing anymore. It’s a retirement community for human turtles. They’re out there going 55 like, “I’m being safe!” No, Brenda!!! You are not safe! You are a traffic cone with a driver’s license. You are actively boiling my blood. Get out of the lane before somebody tattoos your bumper with their grill.

And the stop-sign freeloaders… these people should be studied in a lab. You don’t have a stop sign. Do you hear me?? You. don’t. have. one. But you slam on the brakes anyway, holding up the entire flow of traffic like you’re auditioning for World’s Nicest Moron. Guess what? The other people have to stop. YOU DON’T. This was your one gift from the universe. Your one free ride in life. And you said, “No thanks, I’ll just ruin everyone’s morning instead.”

Then we get to parking lots. Jesus H Christ. Why park in an actual space when you can diagonally wedge your beat up rust bucket across the fire lane like you’re setting up a roadblock for FEMA? Who cares if nobody can leave? Who cares if the fire truck can’t get through? “My Dollar Tree haul is more important.” Yeah, Cheryl, I’m sure those off-brand pregnancy tests will really justify someone’s death in a five-alarm blaze.

But the final boss? The place where society fully collapses? Chick-fil-A. The magical land of waffle fries that cure migraines and milkshakes that restore your will to live. This is sacred ground. A holy site. And somehow, this is where humanity fails the hardest. All you have to do is wait until there’s room to pull up. That’s it. Basic Tetris logic. But no. Everyone inches forward like malfunctioning Roombas, locking the entire line into a standstill while God himself weeps into his chicken and pickles.

At this point, I don’t even see drivers as people anymore. They’re cryptids. They’re feral animals. They’re dumb zoo creatures who got handed two tons of steel and said, “Yeah, let’s roll.” And every time I see one of these stunts, I don’t think, “That’s dangerous.” I think: Kill em! Wipe em out! Throw them all in a pit and let Arby’s deal with it!

Civilization will thank me. Chick-fil-A will thank me. My migraine will thank me. The future of humanity depends on yeeting them into the void.