This Fucking Guy
The guy who takes up two parking spots
He angles across both lines like he is protecting the crown jewels, then walks into Target wearing flip-flops and no visible urgency.
The internet's running list of left-lane campers, gate crowders, reply-all legends, and every other walking bad decision you have ever met.
This Fucking Guy
He angles across both lines like he is protecting the crown jewels, then walks into Target wearing flip-flops and no visible urgency.
Programmed front page
The newest posts already earning immediate agreement, side-eyes, and forwarded links.
He has appointed himself the pace car for humanity.
This fucking guy does 55 in the left lane and thinks everyone else is the problem.
He plants himself in the fast lane, ignores the 12-car funeral procession behind him, and acts shocked when anyone passes on the right.
Because his mid-tier SUV is apparently a museum piece.
This fucking guy parks across two spots like the whole lot is valet-reserved for him.
He angles across both lines like he is protecting the crown jewels, then walks into Target wearing flip-flops and no visible urgency.
Nothing says teamwork like a professionally formatted threat.
This fucking guy starts every reply with 'per my last email.'
He has never once solved a problem, but he has mastered the passive-aggressive subject line and a four-paragraph recap nobody asked for.
A quick thing that somehow needs revisions, a recap, and your entire evening.
This fucking guy says 'one quick thing' at 4:59 and detonates your whole night.
He appears in the doorway one minute before freedom, says this should only take a second, then unfolds a brand-new fire drill like your dinner plans were always fictional.
Editorial mission
The goal is not to publish every annoyance on earth. The goal is to collect the ones that make strangers immediately say, "I know this exact person."
Repeat witnesses
Contributors who keep spotting the good stuff instead of dropping one lucky hit and disappearing.
Featured offenders
The newest public complaints that already feel painfully recognizable.
Because his mid-tier SUV is apparently a museum piece.
This fucking guy parks across two spots like the whole lot is valet-reserved for him.
He angles across both lines like he is protecting the crown jewels, then walks into Target wearing flip-flops and no visible urgency.
He has appointed himself the pace car for humanity.
This fucking guy does 55 in the left lane and thinks everyone else is the problem.
He plants himself in the fast lane, ignores the 12-car funeral procession behind him, and acts shocked when anyone passes on the right.
A pre-shot routine longer than most film trilogies.
This fucking guy takes ten practice swings and tops it 20 yards.
He takes a dozen rehearsals, resets twice, stares down the target, then cold-tops the ball 20 yards and asks if anyone saw that bounce.
Flagship series
Franchise the joke. Give people a repeated format they can remember, quote, and send to each other.
Series
Two-spot occupations, curbside entitlement, and gas-pump squatting with diplomatic immunity.
The recurring crimes of men who believe asphalt is private property.
Series
Gate blockers, overhead-bin vigilantes, and every man who mistakes travel for combat.
A curated archive of terminal delusion and airborne anti-social behavior.
Hall of fame
The canon. The posts people keep sending around because one friend seeing them is not enough.
He believes gravity is a staff member.
This fucking guy never reracks weights and just walks away proud of himself.
He leaves a deadlift setup, two dumbbells, and an abandoned bench behind him like a toddler clearing out a toy chest.
He will now lean crookedly under an overhead bin for 11 minutes.
This fucking guy stands up the second the plane lands like that changes the queue.
Wheels touch the runway and he launches upright like he has been medically cleared to save the aircraft, even though row 31 is not getting off any faster.
A private failure with very public acoustics.
This fucking guy set six alarms and made them everybody else's problem.
They start at 4:45, keep coming every nine minutes, and somehow the only person not responding to them is the clown who programmed them.
Dinner and a floor show nobody consented to.
This fucking guy snapped for the server like basic dignity was optional.
Two fingers in the air, one loud 'boss,' and suddenly the whole room knows exactly why his friends never let him pick the place.
Because his mid-tier SUV is apparently a museum piece.
This fucking guy parks across two spots like the whole lot is valet-reserved for him.
He angles across both lines like he is protecting the crown jewels, then walks into Target wearing flip-flops and no visible urgency.
He has appointed himself the pace car for humanity.
This fucking guy does 55 in the left lane and thinks everyone else is the problem.
He plants himself in the fast lane, ignores the 12-car funeral procession behind him, and acts shocked when anyone passes on the right.
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While shopping this fucking guy blocks the left side of the isle with his cart. Then...
Shopping cart isle killer While shopping this fucking guy blocks the left side of the isle with his cart. Then his physical body aban...
While shopping this fucking guy blocks the left side of the isle with his cart. Then his physical body abandons the cart and shops the right side of the isle. Essentially blocking the entire isle in the grocery store.
He has appointed himself the pace car for humanity.
This fucking guy does 55 in the left lane and thinks everyone else is the problem.
He plants himself in the fast lane, ignores the 12-car funeral procession behind him, and acts shocked when anyone passes on the right.
Because his mid-tier SUV is apparently a museum piece.
This fucking guy parks across two spots like the whole lot is valet-reserved for him.
He angles across both lines like he is protecting the crown jewels, then walks into Target wearing flip-flops and no visible urgency.
Nothing says teamwork like a professionally formatted threat.
This fucking guy starts every reply with 'per my last email.'
He has never once solved a problem, but he has mastered the passive-aggressive subject line and a four-paragraph recap nobody asked for.
A quick thing that somehow needs revisions, a recap, and your entire evening.
This fucking guy says 'one quick thing' at 4:59 and detonates your whole night.
He appears in the doorway one minute before freedom, says this should only take a second, then unfolds a brand-new fire drill like your dinner plans were always fictional.
Apparently your gym membership now includes background acting.
This fucking guy turned leg day into a full production shoot.
He blocks half the aisle with a ring light, does four warm-up reps, and treats everyone nearby like they are ruining his documentary.
Zone 8 boarding, front and center for no reason.
This fucking guy is blocking the gate before his zone is even close.
He creates an unnecessary human wall around the boarding lane, then stares at the screen every 14 seconds like the plane might leave just for him.
A pre-shot routine longer than most film trilogies.
This fucking guy takes ten practice swings and tops it 20 yards.
He takes a dozen rehearsals, resets twice, stares down the target, then cold-tops the ball 20 yards and asks if anyone saw that bounce.
He has confused nightclub seating with venture funding.
This fucking guy ordered bottle service with pure delusion and one checking account.
He waves over the server with the confidence of a hedge fund manager, then asks six different people to Venmo him before the sparklers even cool off.
No words. Just a little blue icon and nationwide rage.
This fucking guy reacted to the breakup novella with a thumbs-up.
Somebody pours their entire soul into three paragraphs and he drops a thumbs-up like he is acknowledging a calendar invite.
A full gas-powered symphony for debris the size of a tortilla chip.
This fucking guy started the leaf blower at 7 a.m. for one leaf and a personal sense of mission.
He fires up the loudest machine in North America to bully one stubborn leaf across the driveway while the entire block renegotiates sleep.
Nothing bonds a table like being ambushed by one confident idiot.
This fucking guy told the server the table was ready while half the table was still reading.
The server appears and he starts rattling off appetizers while everyone else is still deciding whether they even want fries involved.
You booked one room and somehow got surround sound.
This fucking guy is snoring through the hotel wall like a cursed lawnmower.
The wall is vibrating, the nightstand is sympathetic, and you are learning intimate details about this man's sinuses from six feet away.
Congratulations to the people behind him on seeing absolutely nothing.
This fucking guy stands for every big play and blocks twelve paying customers.
Every third down becomes a personal standing ovation while the rest of the section stares at the back of his jersey and remembers why TV exists.
Apparently everyone else should just read his energy.
This fucking guy changes lanes with pure telepathy instead of a turn signal.
He cuts across three lanes with no signal, then looks offended that somebody had the nerve to honk at his surprise attack.
The gas station is not your personal long-term parking garage.
This fucking guy treats the gas pump like a reserved parking spot.
He finishes fueling, leaves the car right there, and heads inside for snacks like the six cars behind him are just part of the scenery.
He has weaponized delay into a management philosophy.
This fucking guy circles back so often he should be studied by NASA.
He contributes nothing concrete, says 'great question' three times, and somehow schedules another meeting to avoid making a single decision.
If it was not urgent, it would not have arrived during HBO hours.
This fucking guy sends Sunday-night Slack messages and pretends 'not urgent' fixes the damage.
He drops a cheerful little message at 8:42 p.m. on Sunday, says no need to respond tonight, and still manages to kneecap every remaining second of your weekend.
He believes gravity is a staff member.
This fucking guy never reracks weights and just walks away proud of himself.
He leaves a deadlift setup, two dumbbells, and an abandoned bench behind him like a toddler clearing out a toy chest.
He will now lean crookedly under an overhead bin for 11 minutes.
This fucking guy stands up the second the plane lands like that changes the queue.
Wheels touch the runway and he launches upright like he has been medically cleared to save the aircraft, even though row 31 is not getting off any faster.
It is a Pro V1, not a family heirloom.
This fucking guy will hold up the entire course looking for one ball.
Everyone else knows the ball is gone, but he insists on a full archaeological dig in the woods because maybe this one pine straw patch hides destiny.
A nightclub, but make it a police interrogation.
This fucking guy recorded the whole DJ set with flash on like the club needed crime-scene lighting.
Every drop gets the flashlight treatment while everyone behind him watches the booth and his camera roll at the exact same time.
Same people, same topic, brand-new notification war.
This fucking guy started a whole new group chat instead of scrolling for four seconds.
Rather than locate the existing thread, he creates Group Chat 7 like a man fleeing the consequences of search history.
Stroller? Wheelchair? Jogger? Sounds like somebody else's puzzle.
This fucking guy parked his truck across the sidewalk like pedestrians are downloadable content.
The bed hangs across the walkway, the hitch finishes the job, and now every dog walker in a three-block radius has to enter traffic to pass his precious rig.
Dinner and a floor show nobody consented to.
This fucking guy snapped for the server like basic dignity was optional.
Two fingers in the air, one loud 'boss,' and suddenly the whole room knows exactly why his friends never let him pick the place.
Crowd-approved classics
The older greatest hits that keep proving the format has legs.
He believes gravity is a staff member.
This fucking guy never reracks weights and just walks away proud of himself.
He leaves a deadlift setup, two dumbbells, and an abandoned bench behind him like a toddler clearing out a toy chest.
He will now lean crookedly under an overhead bin for 11 minutes.
This fucking guy stands up the second the plane lands like that changes the queue.
Wheels touch the runway and he launches upright like he has been medically cleared to save the aircraft, even though row 31 is not getting off any faster.
A private failure with very public acoustics.
This fucking guy set six alarms and made them everybody else's problem.
They start at 4:45, keep coming every nine minutes, and somehow the only person not responding to them is the clown who programmed them.
Dinner and a floor show nobody consented to.
This fucking guy snapped for the server like basic dignity was optional.
Two fingers in the air, one loud 'boss,' and suddenly the whole room knows exactly why his friends never let him pick the place.
Because his mid-tier SUV is apparently a museum piece.
This fucking guy parks across two spots like the whole lot is valet-reserved for him.
He angles across both lines like he is protecting the crown jewels, then walks into Target wearing flip-flops and no visible urgency.
He has appointed himself the pace car for humanity.
This fucking guy does 55 in the left lane and thinks everyone else is the problem.
He plants himself in the fast lane, ignores the 12-car funeral procession behind him, and acts shocked when anyone passes on the right.