The unholy intersection of sirens and stupidity. Vol. I

This weekend we’re highlighting the unholy intersection of stupidity and sirens.
From clueless lipstick-touch-up queens blocking ambulances to wannabe Vin Diesels racing fire trucks, Get the F*** Out of the Way delivers two days of the dumbest emergency response disruptions known to mankind. Today’s post kicks off with five flaming-hot examples of what not to do when you hear a siren and feel the overwhelming urge to ignore it completely.

🚨 ACT I: The Sirens Are Behind You — Not in Your Head

Diagnosis:
Picture it: a quiet two-lane road, one lane in each direction, mid-afternoon traffic humming along like a symphony of mild irritation. Enter: one extremely distracted driver, casually gliding down the road like she’s the grand marshal of a parade no one asked for.

Behind her? A fully lit-up, screaming emergency vehicle — sirens blaring, lights strobing like a techno club for paramedics. In front of her? Oncoming traffic, making it impossible for the ambulance to pass... unless she pulls her clueless ass over.

Spoiler alert: she doesn’t. She keeps driving. For miles. Just… vibin’. Probably listening to Coldplay and thinking about brunch. The EMTs are now in a full-blown hostage situation. There’s someone dying in the back, and she’s busy doing 37 in a 45 with the spatial awareness of a futon.

Recommended Treatment:
Permanent dash-mounted PA system for all emergency vehicles that just screams, “MOVE. YOUR. VEHICLE. OFF. THE. ROAD.” with a subwoofer that shakes her soul. Also, mandatory 10-hour course titled “You Are Not the Main Character: How to Recognize Sirens That Aren’t in Your Imaginary Sitcom.”

The Moral:
If you're cruising through life unaware that a blaring ambulance is on your bumper... You shouldn’t be cruising. You should be walking. On a sidewalk. Far away from traffic. And decision-making.

ACT II: Ma’am, That’s Not a Turn Lane — That’s a Funeral Procession

Diagnosis:
She came in hot. Like Mario Kart on mushrooms. Barreling down the center lane with the confidence of a NASCAR driver and the IQ of a bag of croutons.

Except — and this is key — she wasn’t in a turn lane. She was in a funeral procession. An actual, literal one. Black cars. Flashers. The whole damn solemn shebang.

Now, any emotionally literate person with a functioning set of eyes might’ve paused and said, “Hmm, everyone’s driving real slow, in a straight line, with their hazard lights on. Maybe I should… I don’t know… not cut them off like I’m trying to snag the last pair of clearance leggings at TJ Maxx?” But not her. No, she whipped into that line like she’d just RSVP’d to the afterlife.

Recommended Treatment:
A GPS that screams “YOU DUMB BITCH” every time she crosses a solid line. Or maybe just a daily pill called Don’t Be a Jackass™, now with extra situational awareness. Side effects include not embarrassing your ancestors.

The Moral:
If you're going to crash a funeral, at least bring potato salad. Otherwise, get your ass out of the procession.

ACT III: Bro, You Can’t Race a Fire Truck

Diagnosis:
Lights behind him. Horn louder than his ego. So naturally… he speeds up. Because nothing says "alpha male" like trying to outrun a 60,000-pound rescue vehicle on its way to a structure fire.

He zigzags. He blocks. He thinks he’s doing NASCAR. Meanwhile, the fire truck driver is calculating how many legal ways he can flatten this guy without filling out paperwork.

Recommended Treatment:
Attach him to the grill of a fire truck for a week. Bonus points if it’s during summer and the AC’s broken. Also, revoke his license until he can pass a simple logic quiz:
Q: Is it okay to play drag race with a fire truck?
A: No, you melted moron.

The Moral:
If you try to race a fire truck, the only thing you’re qualified to operate is a plastic Big Wheel.

ACT IV: That’s a Tow Truck, Not an Uber

Diagnosis:
She saw flashing lights and a high-clearance cab and thought, “My ride’s here!” The tow driver? Mid-recovery of a flipped Corolla. She? Mid-delusion. She climbs in, purse first, and says, “Panera, please.”

Recommended Treatment:
A GPS override that reroutes her to therapy. Or at least the DMV for remedial awareness testing. Possibly an app that just locks her car doors whenever emergency lights are nearby.

The Moral:
If it has a winch and hydraulic lift, it’s not a ride share. It’s a cry for help — yours.

ACT V: Oh, I Thought the Lights Were for Someone Else

Diagnosis:
Only car on the road. Police cruiser behind him. Lights on. Siren wailing. He doesn’t pull over. For eight minutes.

Finally stops. Rolls down the window and says, “Oh, were you trying to pull me over?”

Yes, sir. The ghost car in front of you isn’t real. But your license suspension is.

Recommended Treatment:
Mirrors. Signals. Basic self-awareness. Possibly a group seminar titled You Are Not a Side Character.

The Moral:
If the lights are flashing and you're alone on the road, congratulations: You're the idiot.

---

Liked this dumbass? Here are 3 more:
Parked in Front of a Fire Hydrant | The Emergency Lane Is Not the Express Lane | Sir, This Is a Crime Scene