The world is full of everyday injustices, but few ignite my amphibian fury quite like the plague of Space Hogs—those baffling humans who treat buses, trains, cafés, waiting rooms, and every other shared space as if they personally purchased the entire square footage. As the Very Angry Frog, I have witnessed many crimes against common sense, but nothing boils my swamp water faster than watching someone spread themselves across public seating like a sunbathing walrus claiming territory. And today, I am here to croak loudly about it.
Let’s begin with buses, those noble metal tubes designed to transport the masses. In theory, they are simple: you get on, you sit down, you leave space for others. But no. Humans have decided that buses are the perfect place to practice territorial expansion. One person sits down and immediately places their bag—sometimes small, sometimes the size of a fully grown badger—on the seat next to them. They stare out the window with the intensity of someone pretending not to notice the elderly woman standing beside them, gripping the pole like she’s on the deck of a ship in a storm. The Space Hog does not move the bag. The Space Hog does not acknowledge reality. The Space Hog simply exists in a bubble of self‑importance, radiating the energy of someone who believes they are the main character of the universe.
And don’t get me started on the ones who sit sideways, legs stretched out across the aisle like they’re reclining on a chaise longue in a Victorian parlour. I’ve seen people try to step over these extended limbs, performing acrobatics that would impress Olympic judges, all while the Space Hog remains blissfully unaware. Or worse—aware, but unwilling to adjust their posture because apparently bending a knee is too much to ask. If I had a megaphone, I would blast a simple message: “Your legs are not a landmark.”
Trains, of course, are no better. In fact, trains seem to attract a special breed of Space Hog: the ones who believe they are travelling aristocracy. They spread out across two seats, sometimes three, with jackets, bags, laptops, snacks, newspapers, and occasionally a full picnic arrangement. I once witnessed a man set up a cheese board on a commuter train. A cheese board. On a packed service. People were standing in the aisle like sardines while he sliced brie with the serenity of a monk. If I had opposable thumbs, I would have flipped that cheese board into the next carriage.
Then there are the ones who block the doorways. Oh, the doorway dwellers. They stand right in the entrance, refusing to move even when the train is clearly filling up. They act shocked—shocked!—when someone tries to squeeze past them. They look offended, as if the person trying to board is interrupting their personal moment of leaning against the wall doing absolutely nothing. I would like to remind these individuals that doorways are for entering and exiting, not for loitering like a confused pigeon.
Cafés, meanwhile, are a battlefield of territorial nonsense. You walk in, hoping for a peaceful cup of tea, only to find that every table is occupied by a single person who has spread their belongings across all available surfaces. One laptop, one phone, one notebook, one coat, one bag, one half‑eaten croissant, one emotional support water bottle, and one sense of entitlement so large it should be classified as a geological feature. They sit in the middle of a four‑person table, sipping slowly, typing slowly, existing slowly, while actual groups of people wander around like nomads searching for a place to sit.
And let’s not forget the café lingerers—the ones who finish their drink, finish their food, finish their conversation, finish their entire purpose for being there, yet remain seated for an additional forty‑five minutes staring into space. They know people are waiting. They see the queue. They see the staff glancing anxiously at the overcrowded room. But they do not move. They are rooted to the chair like an ancient tree. If I were in charge, I would implement a simple rule: once your cup is empty, your time is up. Hop along.
Public spaces in general seem to bring out the worst in human spatial awareness. Waiting rooms, for example, are designed to be neutral zones of shared discomfort. Yet somehow, people manage to make them worse. They sit in the middle of a row, leaving one seat on either side, effectively blocking both. They place their coat on one chair and their bag on another, creating a fortress of fabric. They spread out newspapers like they’re mapping out a military strategy. Meanwhile, other people stand awkwardly, unsure whether they’re allowed to ask for a seat or whether the fortress is permanent.
And don’t even get me started on people who block walkways. The ones who stop suddenly in the middle of a narrow path to check their phone, causing a pile‑up behind them. The ones who walk slowly, side‑by‑side, forming a human barricade that no one can pass. The ones who stand at the bottom of escalators, staring into the void, unaware that they are creating a bottleneck that could cause a frog‑level meltdown. If I had a whistle, I would blow it so loudly that pigeons would flee the city.
What baffles me most is that humans are supposedly intelligent creatures. You have invented electricity, medicine, the internet, and those little chocolate bars with caramel inside. Yet somehow, the concept of “leave space for others” seems to be beyond comprehension for a shocking number of you. It is not complicated. It is not advanced mathematics. It is not quantum physics. It is basic courtesy. Basic awareness. Basic decency. And yet, here we are, living in a world where people treat public seating like private property.
I, the Very Angry Frog, propose a new system. A simple one. A fair one. A system where Space Hogs are gently but firmly reminded of their crimes. Perhaps a polite sign. Perhaps a gentle tap on the shoulder. Perhaps a frog‑issued decree stating: “Move your bag or face the wrath of amphibian justice.” Not real wrath, of course—just the kind that involves stern croaking and disapproving glares.
Because at the end of the day, shared spaces are exactly that: shared. They belong to everyone. They are meant to be used by everyone. And the world would be a far more pleasant place if people stopped acting like they were the sole occupants of reality. Imagine a bus where everyone sits properly. Imagine a train where doorways are clear. Imagine a café where tables are used efficiently. Imagine a waiting room where seats are available. Imagine walkways where people move like they understand physics.
It would be beautiful. It would be peaceful. It would be logical. And it would make this frog significantly less angry.
Until that day arrives, I will continue to croak my truth. I will continue to call out the Space Hogs. I will continue to demand better from humanity. Because someone has to. And if that someone is a furious frog with a strong opinion and a loud voice, then so be it.
The Very Angry Frog 