Give me a spring break

The snow has melted, birds are chirping and 300-pound men are jogging in short-shorts.

Yup, spring has sprung.

You’d think I’d be in a good mood. You’d be wrong. Just call me Bitchy Bill. Along with blooming crocuses and warmer temperatures come a whole lot of irritants that get under my skin. And I’m not talking about mosquitos.

Let’s face it, people are idiots and they’re at their worst when their winter-dead brains react to extended sunlight for the first time in months.

I propose that Gov. Baker institute a driving ban and insist that all Bay Staters shelter in place until May 1. It’s for our own good, people.

Last week, during my daily 10-mile drive from Danvers to Lynn, not a single motorist used his or her blinkah. None. Zippo. It was as if the North Shore had been invaded by a nefarious army of self-driving vehicles. Cars were zooming in and out of side roads. Pickups were crossing from the far right to the far left lane without slowing down.

I felt like I was invisible, trapped in a video game where I had to navigate obstacles that were constantly materializing before me. And it’s obvious these me-firsters have never heard of the every-other-car rule.

And I have to ask this: Do Jeeps come equipped with directional signals? I ask, because I’ve never seen a  driver of a Cherokee, Wrangler or Renegade signal for a turn.

But I digress.

Finally safe in the city limits, I banged a right — yes, I signaled — onto Union Street from Chatham. A convention of jaywalkers must’ve congregated in the city that day, because it took forever to travel that measly mile. It was like a scene from “Dawn of the Dead.” Whenever I inched my way forward, another cretin stepped into the street. (It happens on Market Street, too, but at least the pedestrians there use crosswalks; they just start walking when the light turns green for cars.)

Seasons change faster than it took me to get to Central Square. Thursday turned into Friday, winter into spring. When I started, I was wearing a snow parka and the heater was cranked up to 11; by the time I pulled into a parking lot on Oxford Street, I’d stripped down to a T-shirt and every window was down.

And, of course, there were no parking spots, but a few clueless, self-centered imbeciles sat in their cars forever staring at their phones while I and others waited.


OK, what else bothers Bitchy Bill? Oh, yeah. Why, when local TV newscasts and morning programs show a video, do they run the same 10-second clip over and over and over again. Twice is enough, thank you. Even if a cute dog sidled up to Donald Trump and lifted its leg, after a couple of times it’d get tiresome.

Those Wayfair TV ads drive me bananas, especially that “drop the mic” one. What does it have to do with home goods? Hate ’em! And whoever came up with that stupid “mind blown” move with the hands should be horsewhipped. Don’t get me started on those Haribo gummy bear commercials where everyone speaks in annoying baby voices.

And what’s up with women’s fashion? Local news anchors and weather “girls,” when they’re not shoehorned into an  outfit that’d be more appropriate at a cocktail party, have taken a liking to those hideous “cold shoulder” blouses that have holes on top, on the side, everywhere. It’s 20 degrees outside and they’re barely covered.

Nearly as bad is the epidemic of those dresses with fluffy bell sleeves. Are they disco divas, Agnetha and Anni-Frid impersonators, or news reporters?

My testosterone may not be what it was, but IMHO these styles are far from sexy or sylish. Are men telling these women what to wear? If designers want to steal from the past, they could do worse than revisit those groovy getups Barbara Eden wore after ditching the harem two-piece in later episodes of “I Dream of Jeannie.”

Well, that’s enough. I’ve already groused well past my bedtime. The world today is filled with so much truly bad news, matters such as these are indeed trivial.

But they still tick me off.

And those kids are playing on my lawn again, dagnabbit…

Bill Brotherton is the Item’s Features editor. Let him know what ticks you off, whether it’s standing behind some jerk with 30 items in the 12-items-or-less (fewer!) line at the supermarket or being subjected to whiners like Bill, at [email protected]

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