Tag Archives: pet peeves

Citizen’s Arrest

Do you know why I pulled you over today?

This is a citizen’s arrest, my friend. You have the crappiest car on the road, yet pimped it out with a large spoiler and the loudest exhaust system on the planet. Add in the obscene rap music from cheap speakers with no bass, and we’re going to have to write you up.

Your reputation?

Let me educate you, son. Community studies have shown that chicks don’t dig a loud exhaust on a 1993 Ford Escort or the fact that the only thing bigger than your tires is your ego. I’m sorry you had to learn the hard way.

Plus, it’s a 4-way stop. Not a Rubik’s cube. Pay your fine and be on your way.


Drop the apple or else the Pet Peeve Police is going to have to cite you for clamorous consumption.

Why?

Not only is the loud crunching of your apple cutting throughout the quiet room like a firecracker, the loud slurping of apple juices that follows each bite gives one the impression that both Mr. Ed and a lapdog are enjoying the fruits of some produce plant’s labor.

Plus, it’s been proven that hearing the sound of people loudly eating food is one of the best ways to no longer enjoy it yourself, and seeing as how I love fruits and vegetables, I’m going to have to ask you to either cut up said fruit or just tone it down.

During this probationary period you’re also to refrain from corn on the cob. Public consumption of this vegetable is strictly prohibited and limited to confines of home. For everyone.


Excuse me young lady. Please step to the side of the locker room.

It has been reported that you were overheard talking with your “besties” about how “totes old” and fat you felt despite the fact that you’re a 20-year-old woman with the metabolism of a manic hummingbird with hyperthyroidism.

On top of that, you turned “Jersey Shore” on the TV in the cardio room, walked for 5 minutes while checking your phone and then left in a cloud of JLo perfume without offering the remote to anyone else. I was willing to overlook that last charge until you called me “sweetie.”

Three strikes. Don’t let the door hit your perky butt on the way out. (#forreals)


Ma’am, please move your grocery cart over by the large stuffed animal-filled crane machine. It’s come to our attention that you are a menace to the sanity of shoppers. Why?

First, you were observed violating code 45D—creeping up past the plastic grocery lane divider and piling on your items with no regard for the personal space or the power of that plastic partition. Back it up, woman. You’ll have your turn.

Second, you were talking on your cell phone while at the checkout counter, completely ignoring the cashier while loudly discussing your husband’s colonoscopy prep. This is a clear violation of, well, society.  

Finally, you stood at the register and studied your receipt for 30 seconds before moving your cart towards the door, so at this time we’re going to have to ask you to do all of your shopping at Wal-mart.

The punishment must fit the crime.

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Your turn. Who deserves a Citizen’s Arrest?

Talking Trash

When the weather permits, I do a lot of walking. And even though I’ve ranted before about the perils of pedestrian life, there is another facet of this endeavor that I have neglected to address until now.

I’ve held off addressing this in hopes that my eternal annoyance would disappear like my motivation to write has in the past couple of weeks. However, while walking the other day I was hit with another bolt of inspiration.

Wait. It wasn’t a bolt of inspiration. It was a mother freaking 7-11 Slurpee cup thrown out of a car going way too fast and blasting ridiculous music.

I WAS HIT IN THE BACK WITH TRASH!!!

Yes, my friends, one of my biggest pet peeves EVER is that of litter and the idiots who perform this inconsiderate and absolutely revolting act of using the world as their dumpster.

Now I ask you, what type of person just throws their shit out the window? What do they think is going to happen to it? It’s just going to magically disappear and that McDonald’s bag is going to be composted back into the soil that will later harvest the potatoes used to make the greasy French fries that once occupied said bag thrown on the side of the road?

I’ll tell you what type of person—a lazy person.

And I can just about guarantee that this lazy person is not driving a high-end sports car with delicate white satin seats that cannot be soiled by caviar juice, therefore necessitating the immediate removal of whatever caviar comes in out the car window.

In other words, I think the 1996 Ford pick-up with the window decal of Calvin pissing on the “Dodge” logo can handle having a burger wrapper on the floor for an hour.

But it’s not just getting blasted in the back with a Slurpee cup or a fast food bag, as there is litter all over the place. Between cigarette butts, junk food wrappers and even the occasional roadside bra that would likely have a more exciting story to tell than I ever will, crap is all over the place.

And I don’t know about you, but there are plenty of trashcans in my house. Maybe I’m fancy, but I have never been to the house of someone who doesn’t own a trashcan, and every gas station I have ever been to has had a trashcan.

There really is just no excuse, other than laziness.

OK. I have to admit that while I’ve never chucked a cup out the window or a wrapper on the grass, I used to have a habit of spitting out my gum in random places. It was part mini-rebellion, part lack of piece of paper to throw it in.

But I tried one too many times to throw it out my car window only to have it fly right back in or get stuck on the outside of the window and took it as a sign from the universe to change my ways. I realized that my actions could hurt people and some ant family could get stuck in that wad on their way to go ruin a picnic.

Or at the very least, gum would get stuck in my hair. Again.

Anyway, my point is that I WAS HIT IN THE BACK WITH TRASH!!! Pelted with dried Icee and disgust at the state of society! Forced to use both caps lock and exclamation points!

The world is not your trashcan and you should treat it as such. The last thing we need is a chipmunk picking up discarded cigarette butts and a nicotine addiction.

Or even worse—gum in her hair.

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