Five annoying things Miamians do
We love our colada-sippin', boobs-barin', corrupt-politician-electin', loud-as-hell fellow Miamians, we really do. Sometimes, though, we just want to strangle them with a rusty wire.
Forget Cape Canaveral: Miamians are the true space invaders. They invade your space. Whether you're at a restaurant, a movie theater, or on the highway in your car, there's no way to forget you're in Miami.
It's endearing, sort of. Mostly it's just really annoying. Please, for the love of God, neighbors: Stop doing the following things.
Letting banshee children run wild in restaurants. A restaurant is not a day-care center. The reason you can't just let your screaming kids crawl all over the floor is because it annoys the shit out of other diners who are spending good money to enjoy their pad thai and whose children are either well behaved or don't exist.
Driving like Ryan Gosling in Drive. There's a rule of the roads in this city. If it's a souped-up Honda or a blacked-out BMW with a "The Shocker" hand-symbol bumper sticker and/or a Miami Heat license plate, the douche at the wheel most likely has a driving record as long as the Torah. Prepare to be cut off in an incredibly dangerous fashion, lean ineffectually on your horn, and then have a weeping fit by the side of the road.
Staging glamour or porn-y photo shoots everywhere, all the time. That means you, streetwalker lady doing yoga poses half-naked while a sleazy photog manhandles the maximum zoom button. Pedestrians on Biscayne Boulevard are not licensed to give gynecological exams.
Talking and answering phones in the movie theater. Have you ever watched a movie at the Aventura theater? Holy shit, that's a good way to spend $10 and two hours boiling in rage. Like, 17 PSAs play during the previews, beseeching viewers to not talk or answer phones during the movie, yet there are always eight to ten people in each theater who seem to have genuinely never heard of such a social courtesy.
Cutting in line. This human snake is not some elaborate, slow-moving dance. We all want the thing at the head of the snake, the same thing you want. But look how you just slink right to the front and order your fucking skim cappuccino. May you also cut the line to Hell.
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