Small towns; Great until you need a good rant.

All through my working life, I’ve moved to progressively smaller towns. Starting a career in New York City, I’ve made my way from coast to coast, then into the middle of the, country and now around the edges—finally landing in a special little town on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. (Note: When I say “finally,” I mean for now.) 
 
When you live in NYC, ranting is not a problem. And because of the population density, you get ample opportunity to be put out. If a man is clipping his nails on the subway (Clip! Ping! Clip! Ping!), You can turn to the total stranger next to you and rant aloud about Mr. Nail Clipper, get half the folks in the subway car to agree with you, and be confident you’ll never see any of these people again. Ever. You’ve had your cathartic rant. Life as you know it goes on.
 
In LA, where most of the offensive behavior is experienced behind the wheel, you can sit in your protective bubble of automobile steel, and get in a good half-hour to hour of ranting about the asshole texting while changing lanes before you finally turn into your driveway. Or ranting about that woman driving 35 mph on the freeway so she can apply her makeup in the rearview. Or ranting about any number of the countless clowns displaying any number of their countless driving-circus tricks. You get to feel completely vented in your rolling isolation booth.
 
And, back to the small town where I now live. First, so when I rant about it there will be some perspective, here’s a list what I love about this town:
 
What I Love

• A vibrant arts community that has gained national recognition
• Ongoing access to exceptional live music. Thank you, 100 Men Hall DBA (Look it up)
• The ability to drive almost everywhere in a golf cart is, in a word, delightful
• The fact that literally anything is cause for a parade or a costume event or both
• Most people here have an “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” attitude
• Diversity and inclusivity (didn’t see that coming, didja?)

 
Okay, I’ve been clear. I like my small town. Here comes the BUT. In a small town, if you someone does something irksome, you can’t just get in a proper rant. You can’t be specific and name names. Why? Because it’s a pretty good bet that everyone will know who you’re ranting about. And then you’re going to have to face that ranted-about individual and/or their family at one of those aforementioned parades. (Note: At least at the costume events, there’s a mask involved. This can be simultaneously good and bad.)
 
And recently, something happened here in my lovely little town that made me want to launch into a proper, soul cleansing rant! I wanted you to read this and yell with me, “Yes! That! That’s horrible behavior!”
 
The following is my attempt to rant in as vague a manner possible about something that made me hot-fried bananas! Let’s see if giving zero hints about the perpetrator of this hi-ee-nus social crime makes me feel heard.
 
Once upon a time not so long ago (can’t say how long) I was at a gathering at someone’s house. (Can’t say if it was a party or a sit-down dinner.) And this person (no genders) was sitting with the rest of us (no names) in a circle. Conversations (can’t say about what) were happening around them as they sat there (or perhaps stood) and committed an act (killing me to not say what) that was so socially inappropriate it made my skin crawl.
 
I could feel my eyes widen as I wondered if this person had a particular issue (maybe an underreported form of Tourette Syndrome?), and didn’t think to step away to handle the problem. But no. No! It kept happening. Over the course of the next half hour, this ghastly behavior continued with no end in sight. (Note: At least clipping one’s nails will end. You can count down from 10 on their digits all the way to the finish line.)
 
I looked around to see if anyone else was as put out as I was. No way to tell. Why? Because apparently, everyone else at this dinner party or Sunday brunch or gender reveal or “Congratulations on your divorce!” gathering or whatever the hell it was, knew to maintain proper social etiquette and not point at this (no names!) person and yell “What the F@$%!? Seriously, (Name Name)? What is wrong with you? Who raised you! In what world is it okay to (insert socially unacceptable act here) in the middle of a social setting? I can’t even look at you! Aaaaaugh!
 
There. I said it. Almost.
 
And now I fear that I’ve said too much. That someone reading this will put together the vague puzzle pieces I’ve laid out and say, “A-ha! That has to be (Missus Blank, Miss Blank, Mister Blank, Doctor Blank, or Too-Young-to-Have-A-Title Blank). And that someone will send the word through my small town (which I love) that I so rudely called someone out in semi-public.
 
Next, the townspeople will band together, light the torches, mobilize to my front door, and cry out, “Seriously, Mrs. Honey Parker! What is wrong with you!? Who raised you! In what world is it OK to almost name names and kind of point fingers at someone in a social setting? We can’t even look at you! 
 
Ugh! And now, I must move.
 
Can anyone reading this suggest a city to which I may relocate, lose myself in, and rant at will? (Will is always so poorly behaved.)
 
Cheers and stay careful-ish,
Honey Parker