Rear-Ended by Stupidity: A Traffic Light Tragedy

It’s Friday. I’m idling at a red light, thinking maybe—just maybe—the weekend will show me mercy. Everything’s still. Front, side, rear—feels like one of those stock photos labeled “peaceful commute.”
And then—CRASH.

Just like that, reality smashes through my calm like a wrecking ball made of metal and poor life choices. I’ve been rear-ended. Of course I have. Happy Friday.

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Now, I’ve seen enough to know what comes next. First move? Kill the engine. Pocket the keys. Why? Because there’s this scam, right? Some punk taps your bumper, waits for you to step out, and then—bam!—they jump in and drive off like it’s G-T-A: Grand Theft Auto, Dumbass Edition.

So, I get out, ready to unleash the verbal equivalent of a tire iron. And who’s behind the wheel? A kid. Barely out of puberty. Face like a TikTok profile pic. And this teenage genius opens his door and goes,
“Sorry, man… I dropped my phone.”

You what?
You dropped your digital binky, and your first instinct was to let off the brake? That’s your plan?

And the cherry on this disaster sundae? He didn’t even get out to check his own car—just sat there like bumping into people is part of the daily commute.

I looked him dead in the eyes and said what every traffic veteran dreams of yelling:
“You do realize you’re operating a thousand-pound death machine, right?”

My car’s fine—miraculously—but I still gave him a free life lesson, the kind that should be engraved into the windshield: Put down the fu*king phone, you dopamine-addled accident magnet.

I get back in. Crisis kind of averted. But you bet your ass I’m watching him through the rearview. Because this kid’s clearly not done being a danger to society.

Next light—red again. And would you believe it? This fool is back at it—head down, screen up, neck twitching like he’s decoding a secret message from the mothership. Then he swerves around me and blows through the red light like he’s got a discount code for the afterlife.

I’m sitting there, jaw clenched, slow-clapping from my seat.
Bravo, kid. Bravo. You’ve earned your license in Darwin Awards 101.

This is what we’re left with, folks.
A generation raised on screen time, now out here Live-Action Role-Playing Grand Theft Auto on public roads.

And yes—You Can’t Make This Sh*t Up.

Narrated by SpillByBill — guardian of common sense, victim of Friday stupidity, and reluctant front-row witness to the downfall of traffic etiquette.

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