Driving Us Mad

Why Greg's Rage Is Our Shared Symptom

There you are— just minding your own business during your daily commute. You—safely strapped in your metal box, Spotify blaring Mogwai’s “Glasgow Mega Snake”—reach for a sip of caffeinated nectar because it’s been nearly… let’s see, almost 90 seconds since your last dose of liquid motivation. You’re surrounded by dozens of other journeymen in their metal boxes, each trusting that everyone else will follow the rules of a mutually agreed-upon moral code.

Then, someone doesn’t.

Sociologists use this scenario as an example of a microcosm of what happens when culture collapses. It happened to the Romans. It happened to the Mayans. It happened to the Akkadians. And now, it’s happening to you. What? Did you think you were immune?

Photo by Howard P

Some guy (on this, and a narrow majority of occasions) was zig-zagging between multiple lanes, exploiting every perceived advantage he spotted. You’ve been noticing his erratic behavior in your mirror for the last two miles as he inched his way to the front of the pace lap. Suddenly, he announced with his horn his intention to dart into your lane, only to discover that the opening isn’t big enough to avoid ripping off his bumper, as well as yours. Fortunately, he slams the brakes, causing the car behind him to nearly rear-end his battle-worn jalopy with expired tags.

And here they come… reflexive responses.

Statistically, the driver behind the wheel of that jalopy was likely to be a male Millennial—part of the generation most prone to road rage, according to recent studies. But don’t get too comfortable. Gen Z and Gen X aren’t far behind.

And females aged 18-34 should be cautious about throwing shade. They report experiencing road rage (more than four times a week) at a higher rate than expected, suggesting emotional reactivity isn’t limited to one gender. Let’s set that debate trap aside.

That other driver, let’s call him “Greg,” has been stacking his emotional Jenga blocks since he left his driveway. Every successful choice he has made up to this point in the morning, every incremental achievement, has reinforced a biological instinct.

And now you’ve gone and done it!

You’ve violated his sovereignty. And his status of “underappreciated NASCAR-worthiness” has been threatened. Greg’s worked hard to reach the top of the “Rush Hour Pyramid,” and you’ve just knocked him down a few pegs without so much as a courtesy blink. “This injustice cannot stand!”

The social contract of this moral proving ground has been tested in real time, and Greg’s about to show you and dozens of onlookers that he hasn’t studied for the exam. He works through the array of tools at his disposal.

He might opt for the classical prolonged horn blast, the sonic middle finger that signals to the forgetful, “I’m The Lead in this Action Movie!” Or, maybe he had his Interpretive Dance class last night and just so happened to pick up a few menacing semaphores he’d like to try out. You know, convey equal parts outrage, disbelief, and vague threats of violence mixed with rehearsed vulgarity.

But more likely, he’ll quickly revert to navigating like Pac-Man, slide in behind you like a Chick-fil-A drive-thru, and just tailgate. He’ll ride your bumper like a cowboy breaking in a wild horse, convinced that proximity equals dominance. It’s the primal flex—the human equivalent of a Macaque flashing its canines—signaling that this isn’t about getting somewhere faster anymore. It’s about making a point. A point that no one asked for, and no one will remember, except maybe you, when your heart rate finally returns to baseline sometime around lunch.

Greg’s not unique. He’s simply the most visible symptom of a much deeper problem. Simmering beneath the surface of every horn honk, every brake-check, every middle finger flung through a tinted windshield lies the potential for road rage. Road rage isn’t just about traffic. It’s about control. Or, more accurately, the illusion of it.

In a world full of uncertainty—weather, employment, politics, housing—driving offers one of the few remaining vestiges of personal control. You choose the route. You set the pace. You decide who merges and who has to wait. You’re literally in the proverbial “driver’s seat.”

But the moment someone disrupts that fragile order, it’s not just an inconvenience—it insults you. A threat to your status. A challenge to your competence. Greg’s become a glove-slapping, mustachioed, aristocrat who can no longer tolerate your mispronunciation of “croissant.”

And that’s where things get primal.

Psychologists call it “territoriality.” Sociologists refer to it as “anomie”—a breakdown of social norms. But in this moment, it just looks like Greg tailgating you on the interstate at 75mph because you dared disturb the order of his magical kingdom.

This is what happens when communal trust erodes. When we stop seeing each other as fellow travelers and start viewing each other as mere obstacles. When the rules we all agreed to follow start feeling optional. It’s more than frustrating congestion—it’s a test of whether we still believe in the idea of society at all.

If Greg has gotten on your nerves, more sympathetic I could not be. But maybe what we hate about Greg is something we haven’t yet confronted about ourselves. Greg is a nuisance, no doubt, but perhaps that’s because we secretly resent the rules we’re forced to follow—some sort of projection. It’s possible.

So, what do we do about Greg?

You’re probably not going to convince him he’s in the wrong. Every totalitarian movement is conceived with a conviction that rage is righteous. Besides, you left your holy water and crucifix at home, so a high-speed exorcism is totally out of the question. Plus, you’ve got crappy insurance.

You could write him off as just another jerk in traffic, another cautionary tale in a rusted-out sedan. But that would be too easy. Greg isn’t the exception—he’s the product. The product of a culture that’s fraying at the edges, where patience is a luxury, empathy is optional, and every inconvenience feels like a personal attack.

Road rage isn’t just about bad driving; it’s about disconnection. It’s about people who feel unseen, unheard, and unimportant—until they’re behind the wheel, where they can finally assert themselves, even if it’s through a horn blast or a bumper-to-bumper standoff. It’s a symptom of a society where the social contract is no longer assumed, but negotiated in real time, one lane change at a time.

And maybe that’s the real danger. Not the tailgating or the yelling or the middle fingers—but the slow erosion of trust between strangers. The idea that we’re all in this together, even if “this” is just the morning commute.

It’s ironic, really—how many of the same people who offer drive-by critiques of complex, global socioeconomic systems, confidently sorting the world into binary rosters of heroes and villains, can’t even navigate a 4-way stop without descending into utter chaos. If the remedies for humanity’s universally connected and deepest problems have eluded statesmen and philosophers for centuries, why should we trust the simpleton solutions from someone who treats the HOV lane as a combat theater?

Let’s be honest, Greg’s probably a jerk even when he’s not behind the wheel. But we all bear the responsibility of self-regulation. The chaos we cause is ours to remedy, because civilization doesn’t depend on mass agreement, but on individuals voluntarily shouldering the load of moral discipline.

Because if we can’t hold it together in traffic—where the rules are clear, the stakes are high, and the consequences are immediate—what hope do we have anywhere else?