LEARN HOW TO FUCKING DRIVE

Anthropological question: if you're a fucking asshole behind the wheel of a car, are you an equal weight on society in the rest of your life or do you keep that part of you locked away like a body in a trunk?

As someone whose [{Walking plus (+) Public Transit} to Driving] time ratio is a solid 4:1, it's hard almost impossible to understand how people in cars - multi-ton metal murder machines - can be at once both oblivious and blameless at any the same time. It's not that every potential motor vehicle operator needs to pass a NASCAR qualification test, we're just asking that you follow signs and markings on the road and don't make our every venture outside the house an exercise in death avoidance.

No Turn on Red? Sorry, the law doesn't bend if you're in a hurry, never mind that we have the god damn walk sign in that direction anyways.

Decide You Want to go Right Here? Use that turn signal tough guy, this is literally the only reason that little stick on your steering wheel is there.

Stopping at a Stop Sign? STOP AT THE FUCKING THREE FOOT WIDE WHITE LINE ON THE STREET, NOT TEN FEET FURTHER IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROSSWALK ALMOST KILLING US AS WE CROSS THE STREET. More on this below:

On a recent evening when the temperature soared up to the low 40's, providing us a desperate respite from our Midwestern January, my four-legged co-writer and I ventured out in high spirits, looking forward to an extended neighborhood walk with only a light jacket necessary. The first mile or so passed uneventfully, until we came upon a four way intersection, each side flanked by stop signs. Like any responsible adult I looked both ways before making a move.

"OK," I thought, "I see a car traveling parallel to us that's going straight after he stops, so no problem there. No one's coming from the right, so we're good to go." As I start to lead us in to the intersection, that parallel sedan decides to become perpendicular - of course, without the use of a turn signal - and has to stop to let us continue across the crosswalk. Not perfect, but at least he's following the course of self-correction. But then, as we gather ourselves and begin to continue through the crosswalk, a woman in a bright red SUV comes barreling down from the right and, despite that aforementioned stop sign and giant painted area signaling where the vehicle should come to rest, ignores both common sense and the rules of the road and doesn't slow that baby down until she's in the middle of the crosswalk we're already occupying, oblivious to our presence.

In one of those 'I'm not religious but tonight the Lord has blessed us' moments her window was open, so as I yanked Astro out of harm's way, I yelled, "Hey!" and signaled with my hands that she almost hit us. Instead of being apologetic, she decided the best course of action was to double down on being an asshole and let us know how lucky we were.

- "How am I supposed to see you in the dark?"  (In theory here I guess my response should have been 'Headlights?' but I was feeling more shocked than comedic.)

- Well, if you stopped fifteen feet ago at that big white line like you were supposed to...

- "Oh, relaaaaaaaaax. You're alive."

I'd give up half my last paycheck to have been carrying a bag of dog **** at the time just to throw it in her window.  Alas, Astro hadn't relieved himself yet and I wasn't wearing this highly visible Lime Cactus Store Hoodie, so I had no further recourse or response in the situation. But if I ever see that Nissan Rogue in my neighborhood again, rest assured she'll be making a very expensive trip to the car wash the next day.

 

Price:  $60

Brand:  Cactus Store LA

Store:  Cactus Store LA

Why:  This sweatshirt clocks in at the low, low price of only $60, has an image of two turtles engaged in loving coitus on the chest - just look at how their eyes lock together - and, plus, neon yellow is the color of the (Yeezy) season. Sure, it's probably not the best choice to wear to the office unless you have a very special relationship with your boss, but for an evening or weekend runaround jawn it can't be beat. A conversationalist's conversation piece.