Real World Darwins on Two Feet:
The Roast of the Strutters, Stumblers, and Street-Strolling Chaos Goblins
Let’s talk about a special kind of Darwin Award candidate:
The pedestrian who’s less “look both ways” and more “main character in their own disaster film.”
I’ve ranted about them before individually, but not yet posted.
But today? We’re assembling the Strut Squad for one epic roast.
🏁 Exhibit A: The Runway Walker
So there I am. Driving. Green light. Minding my business.
And here comes Darwin, King of the Crosswalks, strutting directly into my lane
not jogging,
not hustling,
not even pretending to care that I’m in a two-ton steel box with momentum and right-of-way.
No.
He’s walking like he’s in Milan.
He makes eye contact.
Dead-on. Like he’s daring me to end his modeling career right there at Dairy Queen.
He strolls through my lane.
Then through the stuck turn lane where drivers are fuming behind a red arrow
like he’s Moses parting the Red Sea, if Moses had the IQ of a sleep-deprived houseplant.
Sir.
You are not the Chosen One.
You are not the main character in a tragic romance.
You are one smug eyebrow away from becoming tomorrow’s traffic cautionary tale.
Also?
I don’t care how confident you are
You are not “hot stuff.”
You are potential roadkill with a god complex and no sense of physics.
If I hit you, it won’t be because I wanted to.
It’ll be because reality doesn’t yield to delusion, and neither does a moving car.
🐢 Exhibit B: The Sludge-Walker
Then there’s the people who cross the street like molasses on vacation.
Light’s turning red? They don’t care.
Car waiting? Irrelevant.
You’re sitting there, engine running, bladder full, sanity dwindling and they are vibing in slow motion like their shoes are glued to the asphalt.
If you walked any slower, you'd start photosynthesizing.
Do you have a death wish?
Are you communing with the pavement?
Is this a spiritual pilgrimage we didn’t get the memo for?
MOVE. YOUR. FEET.
Please and thank you.
🧍♂️ Exhibit C: The Human Rug (a.k.a. Chew’s Cousin)
Let me set the scene:
I’m driving. Trying to be a responsible adult.
And then this guy
shirtless, jogging, hairy enough to star in a werewolf documentary comes running dead center down the road.
Not off to the side.
Not in the bike lane.
THE ACTUAL CENTER.
He was wearing shorts.
And running shoes.
And that’s it.
Just confidence, body hair, and a goal no one else could understand.
From a distance, he looked like someone rolled up a wool rug, gave it sentience, and a gym schedule.
I wasn’t sure if I should brake, call animal control, or film a National Geographic special.
Let’s be real:
The 1970s called. They want their rug back.
I don’t know what god he was trying to impress, but I promise you
no one was ready for that level of shirtless mammal energy.
Sir.
If you were trying to summon the spirit of Chewbacca mid-cardio, you nailed it.
But that much body hair is not a flex.
It’s a public safety concern when paired with speed and bad judgment.
Please jog on the sidewalk like the rest of society and leave the center stripe to the vehicles.
🎤 In Conclusion:
If you’re a pedestrian, act like you understand basic survival.
Cross when it’s safe.
Look both ways.
Jog if you must.
But for the love of Dairy Queen, don’t strut like you’re untouchable, sludge like time owes you money, or bolt down the center stripe like you’re the final boss in Frogger.
Welcome to the Real World Rants.
Where the bladders betray, the Flex routes glitch, and the street-walking Darwins just keep coming
barefoot, shirtless, and utterly unaware that they’re one awkward sprint away from becoming an urban legend.
