Inmates here in The Village of the Damned are not the best drivers. Case in point was the whole Mr Jeep fiasco. But we can’t talk about that since it’s an ongoing investigation. So I’ll talk about something else.
My method of getting exercise, other than peeking through my mini-blinds, is to wander over to the mail-house to see if my Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes packet has arrived. Now officially the speed limit in the parking lot is 5 mph but unofficially it’s 45 mph or faster than a person can run, whichever comes first. Pedestrians have a target on their back and I get a little cardio workout when I need to take evasive maneuvers to avoid becoming a spot on the pavement.
And that’s just right here in the Village. Occasionally I need to venture out of the Village of the Damned to go buy more milk, butter, eggs and martini fixings. Once you get past the pearly gates and out on to the real street, look out because it then becomes a game of Mario Kart.
Now, I don’t want to point fingers or make assumptions but, I think part of it is the drivers in the neighborhood are old — combine this with Coke-bottle eyeglasses and being barely tall enough to see over their steering wheel and it’s a day at the derby. They don’t need no stinkin’ rules. What’s a STOP sign but merely a suggestion? Oncoming traffic? Pffft.
I am glad the Kravitz Kart has excellent brakes. I’ve almost eaten my steering wheel more than once.
I don’t want to politically incorrect or insensitive in any way, BUT — The car that almost plowed into me yesterday contained an older driver with their head tilted back and mouth agape. They looked comatose and possibly on life support.
Mrs Kravitz needs to stay home where it’s safe.