The Goose-tastrophe of Dead End Court

Greetings, fellow sufferers of seriousness! It’s me, P. Story.

People always ask me, "P. Story, where do you find these stories?"
I usually reply, "I dig them up from the Garden of Eden-broccoli." (Get it? Because broccoli is a vegetable... nevermind.)

Today’s tale comes from a reader named Sarah. Sarah is what you might call "directionally challenged." Her GPS doesn't give directions; it gives suggestions — like, "Perhaps consider existential reflection? Your destination may be within you."

Last Tuesday, Sarah decided to take a shortcut through a neighborhood she didn’t recognize. She turned down a street called "Dead End Court." She thought, "That sounds like a challenge, not a threat!"

Big mistake. Huge.

She ended up stuck in a driveway behind a garbage truck that was backing up while a flock of very angry geese surrounded her car — not casually, but strategically, like they’d convened an avian tribunal and found her guilty of "Unlicensed Parallel Parking & Unsanctioned Suburban Incursion."

One goose stood on her hood, pecking rhythmically at the windshield wiper like it was a tiny, feathered metronome conducting chaos. Another tried to negotiate through the open driver’s window using only honks and intense eye contact.

Was it a traffic jam? No.
Was it a goose-tastrophe? Absolutely. 🦆🚗💨

Sarah finally escaped by rolling down her window and offering the lead goose half a granola bar. He accepted — then demanded receipts. (She gave him a crumpled parking stub. He nodded solemnly and waddled off, flanked by two lieutenants carrying tiny, suspiciously official-looking feathers.)

Moral of the story? Never underestimate geese. Or street names. Or your own ability to turn "just five minutes" into a full-blown wildlife documentary with snack-based diplomacy.

Bonus Life Tip: If your GPS says "Recalculating…" for longer than 12 seconds, pull over and whisper an apology to the nearest squirrel. They’re usually the real cartographers.