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

Waterpark Warfare

Waterpark Warfare

aka The Line-Cutter Incident I Didn’t Drown Anyone Over (But Deeply Considered)

I don’t usually keep a tally of humanity’s worst offenses — but if I did, this one would be sandwiched somewhere between “teen food service worker not washing his hands after using the restroom” and “trying to pay a $36 bill in nickels and pennies.”

It started out innocent enough. I’d offered to take my nephew to the local waterpark — give my brother and his wife a little breathing room, let the kid burn off some energy.

Not the giant, overpriced kind of park with wristbands and $17 churros. This was the neighborhood version: Smaller. Hotter. Stickier. Over-chlorinated and under-supervised — a damp, feral slice of childhood chaos and peeling paint.

We were getting tired. We'd spent the day getting baked in the sun while floating along the lazy river, and getting agitated in the human washing machine of a wave pool. The sun was setting and the boy wanted food. Not just any food. The ONLY food in his limited menu vocabulary. We strolled down past the main entrance, past the big pavilion with the main concessions — in search of a lone hot dog.

Not just any hot dog. The only thing my nephew would eat. No burgers. No pizza. No fries. No powdered-sugar monstrosities on a stick. Just a hot dog. Plain. And the only place serving them? A single food trailer at the far end of a crescent-shaped lineup — past the cotton candy, funnel cakes, and hand-cut fries.

The hot dog cart sat perpendicular to the others, awkwardly angled toward the main path. Behind and beside it: an open grassy area with a movie screen and speakers cranked loud enough to cause minor soft tissue damage. It was family movie night and the feature just happened to be my nephew's favorite Pixar blockbuster.

By the time the day settled into dusk and the humidity had built up like the bayou in July, my nephew? Over it. He just wanted food so we could retreat from the sensory hellscape before the meltdown clock hit zero.

As we made our way to the end of the hot dog line, we passed a large group — adults and kids — loitering near the funnel cake trailer. Loud, relaxed, nowhere near the hot dog shack. Did I notice them? Sure. Did I think they were in line? Absolutely not. We kept walking. 

We reached the back of the actual hot dog vendor line — and that’s when I noticed the kid.

Maybe seven or eight. Standing about ten yards in front of us. Alone. Facing away from the movie screen, toward the carnival games — the exact opposite direction of the food trailer line.

Not near the window. Not looking at the shack. Not even facing the same way.

Just… standing there. Zoned out. Like someone forgot to press resume.

Is this child supervised? I wondered. He didn’t look lost. He didn’t look upset — just unplugged. So I didn’t dwell on it.

We turned, settled in, and prepared ourselves for the long wait.

We’d been standing in line for the better part of five minutes, inching forward while my nephew tried to hold it together in the blistering heat and the noise, when the group from the funnel cakes appeared behind us.

And they didn’t line up. They merged.

Slowly. Strategically. Like line-cutting was a competitive sport and they'd qualified for finals. The adults and kids grouped up behind us — no apology, no explanation — just that simmering presence you feel when someone’s standing too close on purpose.

One person in particular stood almost flush with my back. Not brushing. Leaning. Breathing down my neck like sheer proximity might get a hot dog faster. 

I noticed. Of course I noticed. But I had a hungry, overstimulated kid beside me and a well-practiced grip on my patience.

So I didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. The line dwindled. Another twenty minutes passed.

Finally, we reached the window. That’s when the move happened.

An elbow. A full-body attempt to slide around me like I’d vanished.

I turned and said, “Excuse me?”

And just like that — the switch flipped.

I was informed that their child had been “holding their spot.” That we “must’ve just walked up.” That I was “being bold and extra.”

I stared for a second. Then answered.

“No. I watched your entire group standing over by the funnel cake trailer when we got here. You weren’t in this line. As slow as this line is moving, your kid had likely been standing there for at least 10 minutes while the line moved ahead. He was nowhere near the back of the line — not looking at the vendor, not acknowledging anyone, not holding anything. You weren’t here. You were over there with the rest of your family getting funnel cakes, while leaving your CHILD unsupervised in a VERY public space where ANYONE could've taken off with him. We were here. YOU WEREN'T.”

They didn’t back off. Instead, they doubled down.

I was “using someone’s issues as an excuse.” That my kid “didn’t look like anything was wrong.” That I was “manipulating the situation.”

And that’s when the filter came off.

“We’ve been here all day. We waited like everyone else. We followed the rules. You don’t get to cut the line and then accuse the people in it of being the problem.”

They still didn’t flinch. They just kept going — louder, smugger, and somehow still convinced they were right.

It was the kind of audacity usually reserved for reality show confessionals or parking lot fistfights. The kind of balldacity you’d expect from an entire MMA team hopped up on pre-workout and poor choices — compressed into one overly confident human with zero self-awareness and a half-baked alibi.

And I stood there. Silent. Steady. Because nothing I said was going to change their behavior — but everything I didn’t let them do reminded them they were dead wrong.

Then I turned to the vendor. Ordered the hot dog. And got myself and my nephew out of there.

Diagnosis:
– Tag-In Line Holder Delusion
– Inflated Entitlement with Portable Victim Complex
– Mouth-First Logic Disorder

Treatment:
Clearly marked queue lines and adult supervision.
One functioning clock.
And a reminder that “present” and “entitled” are not the same thing.

Moral:
If you want a place in line, stand in it.
If you leave it, you lose it.
And if your defense strategy involves rewriting reality while shoving your way past other people’s boundaries —
You're not a victim.
You're just loud… and wrong.

#WaterparkWarfare #Balldacity #LineCutterChronicles #PublicPestilence #AudaciousOutrage #EmotionalSelfControl #EtiquetteMatters

The "Fake Friend" Fantasy

 

 

 

POV: You just watched your best friend enjoy life without your supervision.

The “Fake Friend” Fantasy

When I started seeing someone, I had this one friend.
The type who says, “Of course! Go live your life!” but means, “I expect to be invited to everything and will quietly combust if I’m not.”

So I did what decent people do — I extended the invite. Over and over. Movies? Dinners? Random Target runs? Every plan included a “Hey, wanna come?” like it was printed on the receipt.

Every time? Declined.
Too tired.
Didn’t want to be a third wheel.
“Next time, for sure.”

Cool. Understood. No pressure.

Then came The Post™.

One of those cryptic social media blasts — part poetry, part guilt trap — paired with a perfectly curated sad selfie and a quote from someone who definitely wasn’t talking about them.

Caption? Something like:
“I'm so sick of Fake-Ass Friends. Funny how people change. Some friends just… disappear.”

Comment section? A full-on pity parade.
One reply in particular stuck the landing:
“Damn right. I’d never ditch a real friend for some new date.”

Cue dramatic zoom.
Cue the full-body cringe.
Cue the unmistakable realization that this person had just rewritten history while starring in their own fanfiction, and I was the villain.

This wasn’t about being excluded.
This was about not being worshipped.
About someone else getting the energy they thought belonged to them by divine entitlement.

And when I finally — gently — pointed out the receipts (which included like... twelve text invites), the reaction wasn’t surprise or apology.
It was nuclear.

Apparently, inclusion only counts if you cancel your life and reschedule joy until it fits someone else’s comfort level.

Anyway, we don’t speak anymore.
But I do sleep better.

Diagnosis:
– Delusional Friendship Entitlement
– Selective Memory Syndrome
– Acute Public Martyrdom for Likes

Treatment:
Invite once. Screenshot. Move on.
If someone declines a dozen times and still complains about being left out, they’re not confused — they’re performative.
Muting is not petty. It’s preventative care.
Stop explaining yourself to people committed to misunderstanding you.
Trade ghosters for growers. You’ll breathe easier.

Moral:
People who flake by choice but complain by hobby aren’t friends — they’re subscribers to your emotional labor.
Cancel the subscription.
Set the boundary.
Then go enjoy your life… with people who actually show up.

#FakeFriendFantasy #SelectiveMemorySyndrome #EmotionalLabor #PityPostCulture #FlakeToMartyrPipeline #DailyDumb #BoundaryEnforced

The Decline of Accountability and the Death of Intrinsic Motivation

The Decline of Accountability and the Death of Intrinsic Motivation

Today’s post is a rant.
Not a playful sigh or a passive-aggressive PSA.
A full-throated scream into the void about how society has apparently decided that giving a single shit is optional.
We’ve reached a point where basic human function — courtesy, effort, awareness — feels like a lost art.
This isn’t about one specific offense. It’s about the slow, steady death of intrinsic motivation.
And I’ve seen enough to start taking notes.

I’m not a prude. I’m not a clean freak. I’m not anything near what some people might call OCD, but holy hell — at what point did “put your trash in the trash can” become an unreasonable ask?

I watched someone set an empty coffee cup on top of a garbage bin. Not near it. Not beside it. Directly on top.
The lid was open. The can was empty. They had full motor function.
And yet — they bailed.
Apparently, completing the last step of the journey — you know, actually lifting the lid and using the trash can — was asking too much.

This wasn’t a one-off. It’s a pattern. A plague.
An ongoing display of chore-dodging so advanced it deserves its own museum wing.
When the trash can fills up, people don’t empty it.
They stack things on top — containers, napkins, entire takeout bags — carefully balanced like they’re trying to summit Mount Avoidance.
No one compresses. No one replaces the bag. They just keep stacking, like they’re building a shrine to the gods of Not My Job.
It’s not just laziness — it’s Jenga of Denial.

Take the guy who parked his shopping cart diagonally across two spots in a parking lot — no cart return in sight. Except there was one, five spaces away. He looked right at it, held eye contact like it owed him money, then drove off like the cart had just aged out of his responsibility.

At work, someone nuked a frozen lasagna into oblivion and left the blast radius in place like it was a team-building exercise.
Clean it up? Nah. That’s a tomorrow problem. Or, preferably, someone else’s.

Then there’s the serial offender who stacks dirty dishes on top of the dishwasher. Not in. On top.
Like the door only opens if you answer three riddles and prove yourself worthy.

Let’s not even get into the state of shared bathrooms — except we absolutely have to.
Because somehow every surface is chaos.
Soap smeared across sinks like someone tried to exorcise a countertop.
Toilet paper strewn like spitballs in a sixth-grade lunchroom food fight.
And the throne? Let’s just say the seat’s rarely dry and never innocent — a recurring violation that suggests aim is optional and decency is dead.

And I once saw someone open a door with their sleeve after smacking it with the same hand holding a sandwich.
Buddy, the bacteria already RSVPed. Don’t bother playing it safe after the fact.

This isn’t laziness. It’s a commitment to avoidance. A full-send into the land of “not my problem.”

I’m not asking for choreographed teamwork. I’m asking for proof that basic function still exists.

If you’re old enough to finance a mattress or comment on politics online, you’re old enough to put your damn Baja Blast cup in the trash.

Diagnosis:
– End-Stage Function Avoidance
– Compulsive Trash Can Circumvention
– Advanced Denial-Based Stacking Behavior (JDBS — Jenga Denial Behavioral Syndrome™)

Treatment:
Public shaming. Gentle, but unforgiving.
Cart Abandonment Fines. Trash Avoidance Penalties.
Cookie-based positive reinforcement — because toddlers and lazy adults apparently share learning models.
Mandatory “How to Human” seminars featuring live footage of their worst offenses.

Moral:
If it’s yours, handle it.
If it’s full, empty it.
And if that’s too much to ask — the problem isn’t the task. It’s you.

#IntrinsicMotivation #TrashTowerTales #EtiquetteEviscerations #DailyDumb #PublicPestilence #SocialMalfunctions #RantModeEngaged

The Platform Purge

The Platform Purge

Too Hot for Threads: Morghan Rhiatt Has Been Flagged for Excessive Accuracy

This blog is still relatively new, and I’m still setting things up — getting the labels sorted, the structure nailed down, and the tone consistent across platforms. So when Threads asked for a “photo to confirm identity,” I decided to try something a little different this time:

I didn’t get banned for violating community standards.

I got banned for violating the unspoken rule of modern social media: Don’t point at reality and name it out loud.

Somewhere in Meta’s digital panic room, an algorithm squinted at my identity verification photo and screamed internally. Not because it was violent. Not because it was political. Not because it was anything other than…correct.

No — I got yeeted from Threads for uploading this:

• A grown man in a sticker-suit made of weaponized chaos
• Posing for a selfie
• In front of a crowd of travelers
• With a rogue inflatable flamingo at his feet
• And a patch on his chest that reads "ASSHAT OF THE WEEK"

It was glorious. It was accurate. And apparently, it was unforgivable.

---

It all started when Threads demanded I “verify my identity.” Most people would send a photo of their face. I sent a portrait of society in decline.

This walking meme of a man embodied the exact spirit of the Dumb Decisions Daily Hall of Fame — loud, smug, unaware, and fully documented. I attached it, clicked “submit,” and assumed they’d chuckle and move on.

Instead?

“You can’t use Threads right now.”

The system bricked. The lights dimmed. Somewhere in a back room, an intern probably dropped their oat milk cold brew and whispered,

“Oh no! This person understands what satire is — and they're making a case-in-point mockery of our system!”

Apparently, photographic proof of public absurdity is more offensive than actual public absurdity.

---

Because you see, Threads is a platform where:

• ✨ Oversharing about your trauma earns you followers
• ✨ Oversaturated brunch pics make you relatable
• ✨ Blandness is a virtue
• ✨ And satire is the enemy

They want “vulnerability,” not visibility. “Expression,” not exposure. They want you to pretend the world’s on fire, but only if the fire has a soft gradient and an aesthetic filter.

---

Diagnosis:
Algorithmic Fragility Disorder.
Acute intolerance to observational clarity.
Triggered by unfiltered images, bold labels, and sarcasm delivered without a TikTok dance.
Patient flagged for excessive perceptiveness.
System unable to stabilize truth without branding it a threat.

Treatment:
All Meta moderators must complete an immersive reality internship:
– 3 hours minimum in a department store on a Saturday
– No headphones
– No exits
– Surrounded by unsupervised children and the adults who gave up parenting for Instagram

Upon completion, they must each upload one photo of what they saw — with captions. Let the algorithm decide what’s real.

Moral:
If you get banned from a platform for telling the truth too clearly, you weren’t the problem — the platform was allergic to reality.

And if they don’t like this post either?
I’ve got a flaming paper bag full of dog shit, pre-lit, labeled “For Community Review,” and waiting at their content team’s front door.

Hashtags:
#morghanobserves #asshatoftheday #platformpanic #satireban #tootruthful #threadsrejected

The Clipboard Crusader

The Clipboard Crusader

The Clipboard Crusader
aka The Decline of Morale by Passive-Aggressive Email

Ever watch a low-level power trip in real time? I did.
It was a Tuesday, which already felt rude.

Before the promotion, he was tolerable.
The kind of guy who took notes in meetings no one asked for, showed up early, alphabetized the ketchup — basically harmless.

Then someone gave him a clipboard.
And everything changed.

He went from “mildly helpful” to “mall cop with a God complex” overnight.
Now he patrols the workplace like he’s been deployed by Corporate Command to neutralize the threat of unsanctioned lunch breaks.

Micromanagement isn’t just a tendency anymore — it’s a calling.

He doesn’t help. He hovers.
Doesn’t lead. He supervises.
Doesn’t contribute. He documents.

He stations himself in front of the timeclock like a Walmart greeter with a superiority complex.
Ten seconds late? You’re getting written up.
Every. Single. Time.

The dopamine hit he gets from issuing warnings is almost visible. He taps the clipboard like a judge at a sentencing hearing.
Once scolded someone for clocking in at 7:59 because they weren’t “mentally clocked in” yet.
That’s not policy. That’s a cult.

He uses phrases like “standard operating alignment” when someone forgets to refill the coffee.
Schedules follow-ups for the previous follow-ups.
Sends out mandatory post-meeting surveys… about meetings that should’ve been emails… that he scheduled.

And oh, the emails.

Every day: walls of text, corporate buzzwords, formatting like a PowerPoint exploded.
Each one ending with the battle cry: “Reply All so we’re aligned.”

By Friday, the thread’s longer than a civil lawsuit, and somehow no one knows what the hell they're supposed to be doing.

He brags about “tightening up the ship” while handing out pizza coupons like performance bonuses.
Claims they’re incentives — “perks for team players.”
Says his cousin Tony owns the pizza joint up the street.
It’s a $5 pizza dive with a flickering “OPEN” sign and suspicious cheese.
The coupons? 10% off.
A fifty-cent gesture of corporate appreciation — expired, of course.

He prints motivational quotes and staples them over the fire exit.
Uses Comic Sans.
Laminates things that don’t need laminating.

He thinks “accountability” means never admitting he’s wrong.
He thinks "leadership" means eye contact is optional but clipboard posture is sacred.

His eyes don’t look. They scan — not for conversation, but for noncompliance.
He isn’t building a team. He’s conducting a sweep.

He’s weaponized policy.
He’s outsourced trust.
He’s laminated his soul.

And the best part?

Nobody respects him.
Upper management ignores him.
And HR already has a folder with his name on it — not for promotion, but because someone reported him for using the phrase “alpha energy” during conflict resolution training.

Diagnosis:
– Promotion-Induced Power Spiral
– Clipboard Dependency Disorder
– Task-Oriented Narcissism (with passive-aggressive flare-ups)

Treatment:
Thirty-day detox from all non-essential documentation.
Zero speaking privileges in meetings.
Mandatory immersion in a functional workplace where people like their manager.

Moral:
A clipboard doesn’t make you important.
It just gives you something to hold while you slowly alienate everyone around you.

#ClipboardCultist #ReplyAllReaper #MiddleManagerMadness #WorkplaceWreckage #MicromanageMuch #PassiveAggressivePowerTrips #DailyDumb

The Grammarless Gladiators

Today started out just as any typical day. I made my coffee and sat down at my computer to catch up on social media and the headlines. I usually refer to it as my "daily dose of WTF?", but today was over the top. I made the mistake of opening a comment thread on one of my social media platform accounts. Just one. Thought I could handle it.

I couldn’t.

What started as a halfway coherent post spiraled into a linguistic arson scene. Homophones were massacred. Syntax was mangled. Opinions were hurled like bricks wrapped in misplaced apostrophes. The confidence? Blinding. The spelling? Nonexistent. The shame? Nowhere to be found.

It began with a self-proclaimed patriot denouncing “TREESON” and praising the “freedumb of speech,” demanding impeachment for someone who hasn’t held office in years. I blinked. Twice. Waited for the national anthem to stop sobbing in the distance.

Then came the triple homicide of there, their, and they’re, used interchangeably in a tirade defending an influencer:
“There not the problem. Your just jealous of they’re success.”
I read it three times. Nothing helped. Even autocorrect rage-quit and walked off the job.

A full-boil Boomer followed, caps lock engaged, punctuation disabled:
“IF YOU DONT LIKE THIS COUNTRY THEN LEAVE MY GRANDPA DIDNT FIGHT IN TWO WORLDS WARS FOR THIS”
No one knew what decade the comment was targeting. Or if the grandpa was immortal. Either way, logic was declared MIA.

One brave soul launched a conspiracy cocktail so dense it needed its own zip code:
“Bill Gaites and Hillury Klynton wanted too chip are brains and give us 5G mind controle.”
It read like a ransom note assembled from refrigerator magnets and Facebook rage groups.

Someone else protested the failures of public schools while typing:
“We dont need no indoctrinashun we need real lerning not this sjw crap.”
That was the moment irony curled up and died.

Things unraveled fast.

A random bro appeared, typing threats like he was fighting off invisible haters:
“u dont want this smoke bro i got receipts your moms a ho”
No receipts followed. No one responded. Just vibes and confusion.

Then came the meme. A Minion, misattributed quote, and a history fail for the ages:
“I may not agree with what you say but i will fight to the deth for your right to say it – George Washington 1492.”
And someone underneath it called it “deep af.” I aged six years in that moment.

A “lol” spammer dropped in next, punctuating their ignorance with:
“lol yall dumb af lol go cry lol”
I assume they laughed themselves into a blackout.

Then the “I’ve done my resurch” crew showed up — citing a YouTube video with 38 views and a TikTok filmed in someone’s bathroom. My cerebrum winced.

Someone dropped a “y’all need Jesus” and followed it up two comments later by calling someone a “ratchet slut.”
Scripture unclear. Morals unavailable.

And the grand finale?
A lone user arguing with themselves for nine comments straight, ending with “I’m done. Blocked.”
They were talking to no one. No one had replied.

But it wasn’t just the usual suspects.

One commenter had five pronouns in their bio and still managed to misuse “irregardless” twice in a sentence meant to shame someone else's spelling.
Another cited their “energy alignment source” to claim apostrophes are an oppressive construct. No further questions.
Meanwhile, across the aisle, someone with a flag in their username declared “you’re dum and anti-freedom” while misspelling “America” in a post about grammar.

Honestly?

If you don’t have a good command of the English language, please stop bitching about having to press 1 for English.

And if you’re gonna rant about being “woke,” call everyone else a “snowflake,” and scream about how no one should be “butthurt” anymore — maybe stop melting down over pronouns or patriotism, Starbucks cups or Second Amendment rights, and cartoon reboots vs cancel culture while publicly exposing you have the grammatical instincts of a first-grader.

I’m not even exasperated. Just exhausted.
Left. Right. Red. Blue. “Woke.” “Based.” None of it matters.

The loudest people have become the least literate — and somehow, the most confident.

This isn’t political.
It’s epidemic.

Diagnosis:
Grammatical Entitlement Syndrome
Keyboard Courage Disorder
Misplaced Apostrophe Addiction

Treatment:
Thirty-day Facebook ban
Mandatory Hooked on Phonics bootcamp
Access to comment sections revoked until a basic grammar test is passed

Moral:
Spellcheck is free.
Silence is still an option.
And confidence without comprehension is just performance art with wi-fi.

#Hashtags
#ThreadOfDread #SpellcheckSlaughter #GrammarMatters #ConfidenceWithoutCompetence #SocietyInShambles #StupidIsLoud

The Posturing Parasite

The subject? Our Asshat of the Day. One man-shaped grease stain working in a third-tier fabrication shop — cutting metal, calibrating machines, and somehow dodging death daily in a building held together by expired duct tape and a "no snitching" policy. Ten years in. Still making under $24/hr. Still getting yelled at by a supervisor with one good lung and zero functioning ethics.

The breakroom microwave had mold. The fire extinguishers had cobwebs. The guy? He had a résumé last updated during the Bush administration — back when he was in trade school — probably at a career fair, while he was half-baked and throwing down on pizza they'd ordered in for the event. His email should’ve come with a warning label: toold4xbox420@cheapbeer.net.

That’s what he was using to apply to jobs. Like professionalism was just a rumor he’d heard in passing.

So someone stepped in. She didn’t have time. She didn’t have money. She had stress migraines, overdue bills, and a DMV notice that was one typo away from revoking her existence. But she still did it. They'd been dating a while. She cared. She saw more in him than he saw in himself. His stellar work ethic. His insane technical knowledge. His ability to fix any and everything. The one thing she didn't see was the fact he was using her to lift himself up, but not willing to help her pay the electric bill.

She was a single mom with no safety net. Her kids were her life's fuel, and her will to survive was her hustle. She believed in him. She saw him like no one else did. The trauma, the potential, the lack of self-esteem. Somehow, she saw the good, where the only thing he wanted to see was a "good time."

She rewrote that résumé like she was getting paid — spoiler alert: she wasn’t. She created a new email. Updated the formatting. Cleaned up the chaos. Repackaged his entire adult life into bullet points that made him sound employable instead of emotionally constipated.

Two weeks later: He had a job offer. Better hours. Benefits. Twenty-five thousand dollars more a year. He texted her exactly once: “Think I’ll take it. Shop was trash anyway.”

That was it. No thanks. No gesture. No trace of awareness that he’d just been handed a future by someone who hadn’t even eaten a full meal in two days.

She, meanwhile, was still broke. Still invisible to recruiters. Still writing cover letters that vanished into the abyss.

The résumé? Deleted.
The inbox? Quiet.
The lesson? Permanent.
The guy? Blocked, deleted, and not even worthy of the ‘friend zone.’

---

This story is deserving of recommended treatment for both of these people…

Because there are givers and takers in this world — and when one bleeds while the other climbs, the trauma just hits different.

Diagnosis: (Him)

• Emotional Leech Syndrome: Latches on during scarcity, disappears during success.
• Bare Minimum Delusion: Believes showing up to work high and breathing counts as “loyalty.”
• Secondhand Success Disorder: Mistakes someone else’s effort for his own merit.
• Situational Amnesia: Forgets who built the ladder the second he’s on the roof.

Treatment: (Him)

1. Ban from all résumé assistance unless accompanied by proof of gratitude in writing.
2. Detox from “Good Time” mentality — cold turkey, no contact.
3. Weekly immersion therapy in adult responsibility: bills, groceries, and self-awareness.
4. Remove all gamer tags from job applications. No exceptions.
5. Blocked, deleted, and denied access to the inbox of anyone with self-worth.

Moral: (Him)

Getting the job is easy when someone else does the work. Keeping it? That’s what you do after you grow the hell up.

---

Diagnosis: (Her)

• Saint Complex Fatigue: Chronic tendency to rescue broken men with nothing but Wi-Fi, willpower, and a Word doc.
• Chronic Helper’s Remorse: Post-assist emotional collapse after helping someone who treats kindness like a disposable napkin.
• Dumbass Elevation Syndrome: Polishing an ungrateful man into something vaguely hireable, only to get trampled by his ego on the way out.
• Delayed Self-Prioritization Disorder: Puts everyone’s future ahead of her own survival — especially people who don’t ask twice.
• Résumé Trauma Echo: Psychological condition where Word docs trigger flashbacks of being emotionally used and intellectually robbed.
• Blindspot Syndrome: Capable of identifying red flags in others’ lives at 50 yards but emotionally colorblind to her own.

Treatment: (Her)

1. Immediate Résumé Reclamation: Your career comes first. Rewrite yours before anyone else’s name touches a cover letter.
2. Empathy Rationing Protocol: No more giving 100% to people who treat your presence like a convenience.
3. Blacklist anyone whose contact info includes a weed reference, a misspelled rapper name, or the number 69.
4. Start treating yourself like the client. Charge rates. Set terms. Enforce boundaries.
5. If they couldn’t show up for you emotionally, they don’t get access to your intellect.
6. Boundary Reconstruction Surgery: Rebuild your “no” muscle — firm, unapologetic, and sacred.
7. Gratitude Audit: If someone can’t say “thank you,” they’re not allowed access to your time, energy, or inbox.
8. Let trash take itself out — and stay out.
9. Pep Talk from Patch (my sounding board and my partner in crime):
   You didn’t get played because you were weak.
   You got played because you were stronger than he’ll ever be — and he knew it.
   You saw the man he could’ve been.
   Now go become the woman you’ve always been — but for you this time.

Moral: (Her)

If you can pull someone from rust-bucket employment into a real-ass career with a font change and some well-placed verbs, you don’t need validation.
You need boundaries.
And a PayPal link.

Never again let someone else’s potential overshadow your own.
You weren’t the fool — you were the foundation.
But even bricks crack under dead weight.

#DumbDecisionsDaily #ResumeFails #EmotionalLabor #ToxicRelationships #RedFlagsEverywhere #BlockedAndBlessed #CareerSabotage #ModernDating #NarcsBeGone #SaintSyndrome

Drugstore Diaries

This post comes straight from a reader — a former drugstore cashier and pharmacy tech who survived more frontline chaos than a National Guard unit.

Drugstore Diaries: A Pharmacy Tech’s Guide to Customer-Induced Madness

If you’ve never worked in a drugstore, congratulations. You’ve lived your life without hearing a grown adult describe an oozing rash at full volume or watching a human being fight with a digital coupon like it owes them child support.

If you have worked in one? You already know this place is where customer service goes to die. It’s a battlefield stocked with flu shots, expired coupons, malfunctioning apps, and people who believe the pharmacy counter is just the emergency room with better lighting.

Let’s take a tour of the daily disasters, courtesy of someone who walked the aisles, survived the pharmacy window, and emerged only slightly feral.

---

1. The Digital Coupon Cryptids

Digital coupons were supposed to streamline things. Instead, they unleashed creatures.

The Screenshot Hoarder: Has 42 screenshots of expired offers from last year, all sideways, blurry, and cropped like a ransom note.

The “I Know I Have a Coupon” Believer: Scrolls through their phone like they’re defusing a bomb. “Hold on… wait… I swear it’s here…” Meanwhile, three customers file for social security.

The Wrong-App Warrior: Proudly flashes a coupon from a completely different store. “It should still work, right?” No. No it should not.

The App-Store Archaeologist: Downloads the drugstore app at the counter, phone at 3% battery, cracked screen, password from 2008. “Can you help me log in?” I cannot help you with anything, spiritually or technologically.

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2. The Paper Coupon Vampires

They are the traditionalists. The old guard. They clutch faded coupons printed on ancient home printers running out of ink in 2004.

The Expired Evangelist: “It expired yesterday, so it should still count.” Time does not work that way, Carol.

The Coupon Stacker: Tries to apply 12 coupons on a $4 item. “Well why not?” Because math. Because physics. Because reality.

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3. The Pharmacy Window Warriors

This is where logic, patience, and HIPAA compliance go to die.

The “My Doctor Sent It” Prophet: They say it like it’s scripture. Spoiler: nothing was sent. The doctor probably sneezed and that was the notification.

The HIPAA Ignorers: “Yeah I need the ointment for the rash — you know THE rash — the one that’s oozing—” PLEASE stop narrating your symptoms like it’s a cooking show.

The 30-Second Refiller: Drops off the prescription and then stands there staring. “Is it ready?” No. Not in this lifetime.

The Co-Pay Debater: “Why is it more than last time?” Because insurance is a circus, and we’re all the clowns.

The Insurance Shaman: “My insurance should cover this.” Your insurance doesn’t even cover its own employees. Be serious.

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4. The Saturday Night Pilgrims

Their baskets contain:

• Pedialyte
• Plan B
• Gatorade
• One sad bag of chips
• A pregnancy test

You don’t have to ask what happened. The items tell the whole story like tarot cards for poor decisions.

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5. The Emergency Room Rejects

These people skipped urgent care and came here to seek medical guidance from the cashier who was hired yesterday.

“Can you look at this?” No. Put that away. This is a drugstore, not a battlefield infirmary.

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6. The “I Forgot My Wallet” Goblins

They load $250 of merchandise onto the counter and suddenly “realize” they left their wallet at home.

They ask you to hold everything. You will never see them again. Their items become relics of abandonment.

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The Unholy Receipt

The drugstore receipt is not a receipt. It is a scroll. A novella. An ancient prophecy. It contains:

• Coupons nobody will use
• Warnings nobody will read
• Promos nobody wants
• A sense of existential dread

Employees have used them as scarves, jump ropes, lanyards, emotional support snakes, and once, allegedly, a tow rope.

---

Diagnosis:

Acute Retail Resignation Syndrome with symptoms including:

• coupon fatigue
• GoodRx trauma
• HIPAA horror flashbacks
• insurance-induced migraines
• wild customer unpredictability
• pharmacy window dread

Recommended Treatment:

• Vitamin D and noise-canceling headphones
• Burning expired coupons ceremonially
• A detox weekend without humanity
• Therapy with someone who understands retail trauma
• Refusing all holiday shifts forever

Moral:

Respect the people between you and your medications.
And for the love of public health, learn how your insurance works.

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#DrugstoreDiaries #RetailHumor #PharmacyLife #CustomerServiceFails #MorghanVoice #StupidityManagement #EverydayChaos

International Girls Day: The Day After World Kindness Day Because Apparently We Need Follow-Up Instructions

While hunting for today’s topic — and still trying to sweep up the leftover confetti from World Kindness Day — I noticed November 14 gets labeled as “International Girls Day” in certain circles. Turns out that version came from a U.S. sorority group years ago. The actual United Nations day is October 11.

But let’s be honest: girls deal with more nonsense before high school than some adults do in a decade. So honestly? Two days isn’t indulgent — it’s barely the legal minimum. If anything, it should come with hazard pay and a three-day weekend.

And since society likes to pretend this behavior “starts in adulthood,” today’s as good a day as any to acknowledge the truth:

Girls don’t grow up and then encounter creeps. They grow up because they’ve been encountering creeps.

Welcome to the parade.

The Field Guide to Lifetime Annoyances

Here are just a few of the characters girls meet long before they’re even old enough to get a learner’s permit. Spoiler: they don’t improve with age. They just get louder, balder, and somehow more confused about boundaries.

1. The Chest Conversationalist

This one appears as soon as girls start wearing their first bra — which is tragic, because that’s usually around the same age they’re still collecting Silly Bandz.

By adulthood, the skill is refined to the point of muscle memory: entire conversations conducted at chest level, like they’re expecting the torso to crack a joke or offer stock tips.

Sir, if you can’t identify where the eyes are located, you are not equipped for social interaction. Please return yourself to factory settings.

2. The Meat Counter Evaluator

This phenomenon starts in middle school and ages like a banana left in a hot car.

The opener rarely evolves:

“Ay’yo, how ’bout I get your number?”

Delivered with the same hungry stare someone uses when deciding whether to splurge on the 3-inch Delmonico at Texas Roadhouse.

Girls grow up learning that this “offer” always comes with a pop quiz:

• “Why not?”
• “You sure?”
• “You got somebody?”
• “Come on, I was being NICE.”

Newsflash: “Nice” is not a form of currency, and nobody owes you a receipt.

3. The Instant-Insult Meltdown Artist

Every girl meets this creature young — usually around the age she discovers cafeteria pizza can be weaponized.

He begins with: “You’re cute.”

She says: “No thanks.”

And suddenly he becomes a human smoke alarm:

• “Uppity bitch!”
• “You ain’t even pretty!”
• “Whatever, I was just being NICE!”

Sir, your ego has the structural integrity of wet drywall.

4. The Parking Lot Panderer

Girls get trained early: keys in hand, phone at the ready, awareness on high. Because this individual will ALWAYS appear when visibility is low and common sense is even lower.

They approach with the energy of someone who thinks they're offering a TED Talk, when really all they’re offering is cortisol.

“Hey, you got a second?”

No. No one has a second for a stranger approaching them near a vehicle. Not even if you're giving away AirPods and emotional stability.

5. The Aisle Shadow

This behavior starts when girls are still in braces — someone mysteriously appearing in every hallway, pretending to need whatever’s on the shelf right beside them.

Fast forward to adulthood, and it’s the same pattern — now with cologne and a misplaced sense of confidence.

6. The “Smile” Coach

This one starts before girls even hit double digits. Apparently society thinks girls exist to provide emotional ambience.

“Smile!” they say, like girls are commissioned street lamps powered by approval.

Unless you’re handing out puppies or tax refunds, silence is the best option.

The Lifelong Reality

The reason International Girls Day matters — no matter which date you pick — is because this nonsense starts early and doesn’t magically stop. Girls learn survival drills like it’s an extracurricular:

• cross the street early, just in case
• keys between fingers if the vibes are off
• pretend phone calls to avoid interaction
• reading a room in under three seconds
• knowing the tone of voice that means “leave now”

These aren’t skills. They’re adaptations.

Meanwhile, the offenders walk around acting shocked that anyone finds this behavior unsettling.

Diagnosis:

Generational Boundary Blindness with early onset, fueled by:

• objectification that starts in childhood
• inability to take “no” as a full sentence
• unsolicited commentary syndrome
• aisle-hovering tendencies
• aggressive ego fragility

Recommended Treatment:

• Re-learn basic courtesy, ideally before speaking to another human
• Eye-contact retraining (aim UP, not down)
• Immediate removal of all “why not?” phrases
• Long-term therapy for delusions of entitlement
• A lifetime ban on treating girls like scenery
• Enroll in “Leave People Alone 101”, recertify yearly

Moral:

Don’t be a dick.
Don’t think with it either.
Girls grow up dealing with this garbage way too early. The least anyone can do is stop contributing to it.

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#InternationalGirlsDay #RespectGirls #RespectWomen #MorghanVoice #StupidityManagement #DoBetter #Humor

World Kindness Day: A Simple Request From Humanity

World Kindness Day: A Simple Request From Humanity — Don’t Be a Dick

Today is World Kindness Day, which is basically the universe tapping us on the shoulder and saying:

“Hey. Maybe don’t act like un‑medicated raccoons in public today. Just… try.”

And honestly? Fair. People out here raw‑dogging life with zero emotional padding, testing patience like it’s a sport. So yes — a reminder to be kind? Needed. Urgently.

Featured Image — Credit: Sawdust City LLC

😇 Kindness Isn’t Complicated — We Just Make It Weird

Kindness isn’t a personality transplant. You don’t need to meditate on a mountain or name your aura “Clementine.”

It’s tiny, boring, shockingly easy stuff like:

• Using a blinker like you didn’t buy your car from Satan
• Letting someone merge even if your ego hisses, “Never.”
• Returning your shopping cart instead of letting it roam the parking lot like a metal buffalo
• Saying “thank you” without sounding like you’re being held hostage

This is kindergarten‑level humaning. Yet somehow we treat it like advanced astrophysics.

🧠 Why Kindness Actually Matters

Everyone you see today is carrying something heavy — grief, stress, financial fear, family chaos, or the soul‑crushing realization they forgot to thaw the chicken.

Your one kind moment might be the only bright spot they get today. It hits harder than you think.

😂 Quick World Kindness Day Dos & Don’ts

DO:

• ✔️ Hold the door
• ✔️ Compliment someone’s shoes, hair, or vibe
• ✔️ Let the “two‑item person” go ahead of your apocalypse cart
• ✔️ Speak to service workers like actual humans
• ✔️ Give people room when they’re clearly struggling

DON’T:

• ❌ Weaponize your opinions before 10 am
• ❌ Act like customer service is your emotional punching bag
• ❌ Be the reason someone posts on Nextdoor
• ❌ Tell someone to “calm down” (unless you enjoy detonating people)

🫶 Your Challenge Today

Just do one kind thing. One.

Smile.
Hold a door.
Give someone space.
Let someone in traffic.
Tell a tired‑looking person they’re doing great.

Baby steps. You don’t need to rescue a dolphin or adopt a village.

💛 Final Thought

Kindness isn’t perfection.
It’s not sainthood.
It’s not even always being nice.

It’s remembering we’re all stumbling through life with half‑charged mental batteries and a questionable amount of sleep.

So today — be kind.
Or at bare minimum?
Don’t be a dick.

The bar is low, but babe… you can clear it.

#WorldKindnessDay #BeKind #DontBeADick #KindnessMatters #DailyLife #Humor #Satire #StupidityManagement #Humanity #DoBetter