slowtron

So I'll apologize to my grandmother right off the top.

It seems everywhere I drive right now there are convoys of q-tips. The driving dead, half-alive behind the wheel. Pre-occupied not with the inherent danger of the road but rather the glory that awaits them in heaven, or the scourge that is same-sex marriage, or perhaps the lack of security measures Calgary has in place for the imminent Al-Qaeda attack of our glorious downtown. Oblivious, they meander from lane to lane at half the speed limit forgetting to indicate, filling their grown-up diapers with unmentionables whenever someone motors by. Oh how I loathe the old when they buckle into thier chariots of death and bear their reign of terror upon us - smiling that denture-filled and knowing smile as I finally bolt past them. I can hear the scorn: "I'm 209 years young because I don't drive like an asshole - unlike you sonny."

Oi. It makes me long for the world of Logans Run. But then I'd have been sent into space in a blaze of glory by now too...