I’d just finished picking up a couple things from the grocery store for my friend’s baby shower. I was adding the destination to my phone when I heard a violent bang on the passenger window. It was a woman, seemingly foaming at the mouth and throwing her cracky noodle arms all over the place. She screamed, “Quit your mother fuckin’ typin’ on your stupid Facebook phone and start driving.”

Gathering all the information quickly and seeing her car parked behind me, stopping traffic, I realized I was encountering a real-live Karen like the ones on the internet. As unexpected as a Big Foot sighting, but sadly not as rare or exciting. She stomped in her bright green crocks back towards her car, and when I made eye contact with her redneck kid in the backseat, it stuck its tongue out at me. At least her asshole feet are comfortable while she runs around terrorizing the world, I thought, and I bet her asshole son wears em’ too.

I got out of my car and yelled, “What the fuck is a Facebook phone?”

She stopped in her shitty tracks and whipped her head around. Her eyes bulged and began twitching like a malfunctioning robot, and she banged her fists on her hood, letting out a scream you only hear from birthing women… or Karens.

She growled, “I need to get to the store, and you’re sittin’ here playin’ on your fuckin’ phone. Now move!”

I let out a petty laugh, “You do realize the amount of time it’s taken to throw this bitch fit, you could have already parked and walked your crazy ass into the store, right?”

As soon as the logical words slipped out of my mouth, I remembered that Karens don’t work on logic. She lost it and began screaming, snarling, and pulling at her hair. Now, because sometimes you gotta out crazy the crazy to deescalate the situation, I zeroed in on the yogurt at the top of my grocery bag. I grabbed the yogurt, opened it fiercely, and raised it above my head. “Alright, you cooky bitch you wanna play with mama?”

Confused, she stopped and watched me in horror as I widened my eyes, smearing the yogurt all over my face and dumping it down the front of my pants. Quiet as a fucking mouse, she jumped into her car, and while speeding off, she yelled: “You need help, you fuckin’ psycho.”

I waved at the recording bystanders, got in my car calmly, and drove off. For the rest of my trip, with yogurt swamping my private crevices, I thought about how I probably did need help… But not as much as that crazy bitch.