One would assume, as much as I drive, that I would accept the inability of the public to navigate the highways and byways with any semblance of skill and/or ease. That's not how I work. I just become more frustrated with it day by day. So frustrated, at times, that I feel I should be able to lecture those who are inept.
I'm aware that I've proposed this action before, but I am now more adamant in my belief that it is a need - a necessity- for the safety of our travels and the sanity of the good drivers of America.
Our license plates should be our cell phone numbers.
So when jigaboo with his spinners, Ridin Dirty tint, driver's seat leaned back so far that the headrest touches the backseat and both hands typin' on his two-way knows that I feel his 97 Honda Accord in the left lane traveling at a mind-boggling 62 MPH should probably be in the right lane with Grandma Georgina and the Wal-Mart delivery truck who has mistaken his load of Brawny paper towels and Fancy Feast cat food for Nitroglycerin. Don't drive above 60! We might explode!
(Please, do not interpret jigaboo as a racist term - despite its checkered past - in this particular instance it is being used to refer to a very white man with prison tats and a diamond and gold grill adorning his teeth. Attractive, yes? Ladies, do not hesitate using the cell phone number license plates as not only an outlet for your anger, but also a dating service. This man is anxiously awaiting your call.)