Stuck in the retard parade

One of the first things I learned when we moved here almost six years ago was that people here are bad drivers with molasses-slow reflexes.

I have adjusted my expectations since then and have come to accept that even though I am not a particularly aggressive driver, no one – absolutely no one – will ever beat me off the line at a stoplight unless I doze off during the red.

Based on anecdotal evidence, I’d bet that Arkansans are statistically under-represented in the ranks of jet fighter pilots.

But something has happened in the past week – maybe it’s the advent of the first mini-heat wave of the late spring – to make local drivers slower and stupider than usual.

Every time I’ve driven in to town this week, it feels like I’m stuck at the back of a retard parade. Or maybe just a parade of 80-something blue-haired old ladies in Buicks.

The times I’ve been on a bike, I’ve seriously considered lane-splitting. It’s legal and not discouraged in California, but would probably get me arrested here for startling the incompetents.

They call turn signals “blinkers” here, but they might as well not call them anything because most drivers rarely use them.