Angles of Justice: The Geometry Crusader's Battle for Right-Angle Crossings
Mr. Angulus Right had been teaching geometry at Plainview High for 23 years. He loved his job, and nothing brought him greater joy than explaining the Pythagorean theorem or watching a student’s face light up when they realized what a "rhombus" was. But one thing drove him absolutely insane: people crossing streets and parking lots at random, meandering, acute angles, as though geometry didn’t exist.
“Why, why do they do this?!” Mr. Right fumed one afternoon as he watched a woman diagonally shuffle across the Plainview Grocery parking lot, cutting a slow, inefficient path between two cars. He had timed her—it took a full 45 seconds for her to reach the other side. If she had walked perpendicular to the traffic lane, she could have saved at least 20 seconds. Instead, she had crossed like a lost angle, ignoring the sacred truth: the shortest distance between two points was sometimes completely impractical.
“I can’t stand by any longer!” Mr. Right shouted to himself, slamming his chalk down in the middle of an isosceles triangle diagram. “It’s time to take action. The people must be educated!”
The next morning, armed with a clipboard, a laser pointer, and a megaphone, Mr. Right stationed himself at the busiest intersection in town. As pedestrians approached the crosswalk, he leapt into action.
“STOP! RIGHT ANGLE ONLY!” he bellowed through the megaphone at a man who had started veering off toward the corner café at an angle that could only be described as obtuse. “Do you have any idea how inefficient that is? You'll be in the middle of the crosswalk longer, increasing your exposure to oncoming traffic!”
The man froze, startled. “Uh... I just wanted a coffee.”
“And you’ll get there faster if you walk straight to the other side first!” Mr. Right shouted, pointing his laser at the perpendicular path across the street. “See? A right angle here, then a straight line to the café. Two steps, minimal risk of being flattened!”
By the end of the day, Mr. Right had handed out over 50 pamphlets titled, The Geometry of Crossing Streets Safely and Efficiently. He even drew diagrams for those who seemed particularly resistant to his methods. Yet, despite his efforts, he noticed some people still cutting across at ridiculous angles, wandering diagonally through traffic like disoriented ants.
Undeterred, Mr. Right escalated his campaign. He began staking out parking lots, armed with cones, tape, and a portable chalkboard. He would interrupt drivers backing out of spaces, yelling, “YOUR ANGLES AFFECT PEDESTRIAN SAFETY!” and chalking up impromptu lessons on acute versus obtuse crossings.
One particularly irritating afternoon, Mr. Right spotted a teenager slowly ambling across the parking lot, headphones on, phone in hand, and an angle of trajectory that must have been about 15 degrees with respect to the parked cars. It was excruciatingly acute.
“Hey! YOU!” Mr. Right barked, running after him with the megaphone. “Do you realize how much longer it’s taking you to cross the lot like this? If you walked in a proper right angle, you’d be on the sidewalk by now!”
The teenager pulled out one earbud. “What?”
“You’re taking forever!” Mr. Right snapped. “And meanwhile, cars are waiting! You’re creating a traffic jam! THINK OF THE ANGLES, MAN!”
The teenager stared at him blankly. “I dunno, dude. I just go wherever.”
Mr. Right threw his clipboard in frustration. “WHEREVER IS NOT A VALID VECTOR!”
By the end of the week, Mr. Right’s campaign reached new heights. He created a series of YouTube tutorials under the name “The Geometry Crusader,” where he demonstrated how to cross streets and parking lots with mathematical precision. He even started mapping out entire towns with ideal pedestrian routes, complete with right angles, logical paths, and designated "Angle-Free Zones."
But it wasn’t enough. Too many people continued to meander, shuffle, and dawdle at absurd angles, completely ignoring the efficient beauty of right-angle crossings. So Mr. Right took drastic action.
One night, under the cover of darkness, Mr. Right donned his custom-made reflective vest (emblazoned with a large protractor) and set out to redesign the Plainview Grocery parking lot. With a bucket of white paint and a ruler the size of a canoe, he drew perpendicular crosswalks and massive arrows indicating the proper 90-degree paths. He even installed signs that read: “RIGHT ANGLE ONLY—CROSS AT YOUR PERIL OTHERWISE.”
The next morning, chaos erupted as shoppers encountered the newly geometrized lot. Most were confused but complied. However, one man, in blatant defiance, attempted a diagonal crossing.
Mr. Right, hiding in a nearby bush, sprang into action.
“STOP RIGHT THERE!” he shouted, leaping in front of the man like a human barricade. “DO YOU NOT SEE THE ARROWS?”
The man froze, clutching his groceries. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a parking lot!”
“IT IS NOT JUST A PARKING LOT!” Mr. Right roared. “It is a grid! A sacred grid designed for efficiency, safety, and order! YOUR BLATANT DISREGARD FOR ANGLES THREATENS US ALL!”
The man, thoroughly intimidated, shuffled backward and followed the painted path to the sidewalk.
From that day forward, Plainview became a town of right angles. At first, people grumbled, but soon they marveled at how much faster and safer parking lots and intersections became. Mr. Right was hailed as a local hero, and his methods were adopted by nearby towns. The Geometry Crusader had won.
To this day, no one dares cross Plainview’s streets or parking lots at anything but a right angle. And Mr. Right? He retired peacefully, content in the knowledge that he had left the world a little more mathematically perfect.
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