Hurricanes, HOAs, and the Luxury of Whining

As Hurricane Erin slams into the East Coast, I find myself wishing storms weren’t just a coastal problem. Don’t get me wrong — I’m not wishing death or devastation on strangers. But I am wishing more people could get slapped by reality every once in a while. A hard reset. A reminder of what actually matters.

Because let’s be honest: people have too much damn time on their hands. They waste their limited days on this earth complaining about the actions of others. On social media. On the road. And, most of all, in HOAs.

Good God, HOAs.

Yes, they fund snow removal, trash pickup, and road repairs. But mostly? They exist to give bored people a stage to bitch about their neighbors.

“So-and-so’s weeds are out of control — what is the HOA doing about enforcement?”
Translation: you want the world to look pretty while your mutt shits in my yard.

“So-and-so’s motorcycle is too loud. Aren’t there noise standards?”
“There’s a car with a broken windshield parked on the street.”
“That house is green. I don’t like green.”

Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.

This is what “progress” has brought us: a nation of whiny little cunts who hate freedom because freedom is work.

A hundred years ago, hot water was a luxury. Today, people complain it’s not hot enough. A hundred years ago, you stoked a fire at 2 a.m. to keep your family alive. Today, people moan that their AC won’t dip below seventy-two.

When I was growing up, cell phones didn’t exist. If your car broke down, you looked for a yard light, knocked on a stranger’s door, and politely asked to use their phone. A quarter got you a call from a pay phone booth — assuming Superman wasn’t changing clothes inside.

Now? You can order a pizza, thumbs-up a cat video, and bitch about your neighbor’s lilacs — all from the climate-controlled comfort of your Kia Sorento while turning left onto 285.

We’ve got machines to clean, cut, grind, blend, wash, polish, and automate every corner of life. And still, with all this comfort, we invent new problems to rage about. Because real accountability is too damn scary.

It’s easier to bitch about the neighbor’s radio than to sit in the silence of your own living room and ask whether your existence has made anything better. Easier to whine about piles of leaves than to wonder if anyone will remember your name when you’re gone.

So yeah, maybe the truth is simple: this country would be better off if the occasional hurricane hit places like Salt Lake City or Chicago. Not to kill, not to destroy — but to remind people what real problems look like. To remind them tomorrow isn’t promised, so maybe spend today worrying about what matters. A storm as a reset button. Something to slap people out of their petty bullshit and force them to realize how good they actually have it.