You know who sucks at driving? Everyone else.

I reside in a United State where genuine winters happen.  To give you some perspective, people here actually wrap chains around their tires for better traction.  Chains.  Around their tires.  Yeah, like goddamned Ghost Rider.  It can be that brutal on any given day between November and March.

Here, this movie would have been entitled Wednesday Morning.

We're talking snow, sleet, ice, hail, and the occasional blizzard-thunderstorm (yes, it is real, and, yes, it is Thor-smiting-earth-awesome).  As such, you might think the locals would get used to such conditions and adapt to them, however, more than a few seem to be all about proving that homo sapiens has risen above evolution, and can act in direct contradiction to it.  This means aggressively pursuing extinction via the most expedient route available, and everyone knows the expressway is the fastest route anywhere. Maybe this is just natural selection's killswitch for over-successful species.  The problem is, I'm not particularly keen on vehicular manslaughter.  It's just not my style.  Forget the economy, someone needs to step up and start enforcing some serious wintertime driving reform.  If automobile enthusiasts are going to forget each year what winter was like the previous, it's past time for a reality check.  "Driving too fast for conditions" and "reckless driving" are actual criminal offenses in most states, so I would recommend officers of the law start using them.

"Shit, I think the state troopers got a budget increase."

Yet, for reasons unknown, the promulgation of laws and their execution has not been yielded to me, so I am once again limited to registering a strongly-worded opinion on the matter.  My day will come.  In the meantime . . .

I get it: you have a 4-wheel-drive vehicle.  Your traction is superior to mine.  Yeehaw, git 'er done, and all that.  However, you are not piloting a Hovercraft, nor a rebel snowspeeder; the physics governing friction still apply to your vehicle, no matter how few miles it gets per gallon.  I have literally been behind a fucking multi-ton, 7.7-million horsepower dump trunk that fishtailed and spun out, so don't try to tell me your soccer mom "SUV" - a minivan in all but trim package - is capable of driving on black ice in whiteout conditions at 75 MPH.

As an exercise, see if you can spot the difference between these two roadways:

Figure (A)

Figure (B)

What's amazing (read: inconceivably retarded) to me is that people seem to confuse these on a regular basis.  If they aren't barreling along Figure (1) as though it's an open straightaway on the Autobahn midsummer, they are putzing down Figure (2) in some bizarre reversal of the Speed scenario, wherein their vehicle will explode if they accelerate above 17 MPH.  Or at least I assume that is the paranoid delusion under which they operate.  There is a happy medium here, people.  I have more sympathy for the latter, who at least err on the side caution, even if they still generally suck as human beings.

Some people just can't help it.

As for the former . . . well, not to be overly dickish, but I seriously wish minor accidents on every motorist who does this. No broken bones, just a little whiplash, a towing bill, and maybe $400 worth of body damage.  Except for the clueless, careless fuckwit who practically sideswiped my car as he passed it doing 15 over the regular-weather speed limit on an unplowed road.  Mr. Douchemaster Supreme can do a midair triple-axle on a hairpin turn and spontaneously combust upon impact, hopefully taking out another one of his kind in the process.  Please, God.  Whenever someone like this whips past me during a snowstorm, I assume they are (A) a mud-boggin,' two-trackin,' cousin-fuckin' redneck with a religious conviction about the superiority of their particular American truck brand, (B) a pompous, dual-Bluetooth-sporting jerkoff who's sure his "German-engineered" 4x4 can handle apocalyptic fire and brimstone on the road, or (C) . . .

In which case, drive as fast as you want, but you'll never outrun your shame.

Oh, and is it really too much to ask that you turn on your headlights?  I realize I have said this before, but it bears repeating: on an overcast day when that ice-cold bitch Mother Nature has covered every surface with six inches of crystalline peril, your white '99 Corolla barely registers in my peripheral vision.  On days such as this, you need to turn your lights on as much to help others see you as vice-versa.  You want to play ninja/Invisible Man/Predator, go put on a camouflage snowsuit and run around a wooded area, preferably one stalked by lots of nearsighted, overzealous game hunters.  Stay off my thoroughfares.

Which reminds me, if you simply must get onto my thoroughfares, don't be a complete jackass about it.  Think about it: the pavement is slick with slush, ice, accumulated snow, and probably the blood, pulped remains, and residual engine fluids from the last idiot like you.  This means that (1) my braking distance is significantly longer than normal, and (2) you cannot accelerate, especially from a dead-stop, as nimbly as usual.  So do not, for the love of Hermes (Greek patron god of travelers), try to dart out into traffic 30 feet ahead of me.  You know what my favorite is?  It's you pulling out in front of me when there isn't another car in sight, and waiting 2.3 seconds would yield a completely clear, safe roadway for you to accelerate on.  Ha, just kidding, you're a total fucking shit-thick moron who will get what's coming to him.

So, if you ever find yourself upside down in a ditch thanks to your own reckless driving, wondering which will be bigger, your hospital or repair bill, and you hear the eerie sound of laughter somewhere in the distance, it's not the concussion and associated brain damage - it is me, reveling in the karmic cycle that has landed you there.

*Not pictured: me, passing your stupid asses.

KP, out.