Down with Karens!
Junction City Neighbors (the sucky ones)
Is it me, or has Junction City become the Holy See of Karendom, the Vatican of Vexation, where every cul-de-sac is presided over by a self-anointed High Priest or Priestess? One cannot so much as exhale without risking a citation, a Facebook post, or a passive-aggressive casserole laced with judgment. They descend in packs, frosted tips gleaming in the sun, their SUVs circling the block like rhinoceros-sized carrion birds in search of non-compliant grass blades.
Observe them in their natural habitat: clutching an iced caramel macchiato the size of an oil drum, sermonizing about “environmental stewardship” while their air-conditioning unit wheezes under the strain of cooling a house large enough to qualify as a regional airport. They are the guardians of lawn orthodoxy, the inquisitors of hedge alignment, the zealots of trash-bin placement. They speak the sacred language of “community standards,” which roughly translates to: Do as I say, lest I smite you with a strongly worded email.
Their hypocrisies are majestic, a wonder of nature. They rail against your dandelion like it’s the botanical Antichrist, yet their own yard is a shrine to Styrofoam tombstones and inflatable Santas, bobbing year-round in the wind like deranged dirigibles. Their garage, a cavernous purgatory of half-used craft supplies and exercise bikes, spills open every Saturday, yet they will crucify you for leaving a garden hose in mild disarray. Their children, wild and sticky-fingered, ricochet through the Walmart aisles like caffeinated lemurs, but heaven forbid your dog barks past 9:01 p.m.
And so Junction City suffers beneath their reign: not from crime, pestilence, or famine, but from the ceaseless buzzing of Karens, an invasive species more pernicious than kudzu, more relentless than locusts, and infinitely more self-satisfied. They are the hall monitors of eternity, the petty Caesars of suburbia, doling out judgment from behind their steering wheels as they idle, engines roaring, in the twenty-car McDonald’s drive-thru.
They will not stop until every mailbox stands at regulation height, every welcome mat is color-coordinated, and every soul in Junction City is broken upon the wheel of their suburban dominion. And when the history of this town is written, let it be said not that we lived, but that we endured—through the Karen Epoch, a dark age of pearl-clutching tyranny and performative civic zeal.
Tell us your story
How It Works: The process is elegantly simple. You send us your stories – anonymously, naturally – about the neighborly tyrants in your life. The ones who patrol the cul-de-sac as if it were their personal fiefdom, who weaponize bylaws with the zeal of a prosecuting attorney, or who believe your slightly overgrown hedge is a threat to civilization itself.
Once in our hands, these small tragedies of suburban life will be transformed into something greater: fictionalized accounts, embellished just enough to capture the full absurdity of the offender in question. They will appear here, and if your tale is particularly rich in pettiness, in an upcoming book.
The purpose is not mere entertainment (though there will be plenty of that), but a small act of justice. Your neighbor’s favorite pastime is to regulate, to nitpick, to shame. Very well, let us return the favor, with sharper wit, louder laughter, and an audience.
