Driving
Left lane campers, no-signal merges, and rolling roadblocks.
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.
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.
Nothing says confidence like entering traffic in first gear.
This fucking guy reaches the freeway and decides 38 mph is plenty.
The on-ramp is half a mile long and he still joins freeway traffic like he is easing into a church parking lot.
He is not driving home. He is interrogating everyone else.
This fucking guy drives with high beams like he is landing aircraft.
His lights are aimed directly into your soul and somehow he still has no clue why every car around him is flashing back.
Driving pages work best when the offending move is obvious in one sentence and specific enough that a stranger can picture the whole scene immediately.