At the Risk of Sounding Like The Portland Mercury's "I, Anonymous" . . .

. . . (Not that there's anything wrong with venting), I have a question for the fellow in the BMW Z4 Roadster convertible that I saw charging his way through the intersection of SE Belmont and 7th the other day.  Us poor saps who depend on public transportation to get around were sitting on the bus stop on the corner when you made your presence known.  There was a red light, but doggone it, you wanted to go anyway - and why shouldn't you?!?  A fine prowler of a machine like a Beemer shouldn't be cooped up and restrained by the rules that commoner vehicles like Yugos and Pintos must follow - she was built for speed!  You revved your engine, growling at the lowly station wagon which was blocking your path, to get the hell out of your way, already!  The station wagon didn't take the hint, as the driver was too busy finding a safe slot in traffic to turn right into, and so you trumpeted your mighty horn!  Finally, the sensible little vehicle made her move, unleashing your mighty Roadster into the wild, where she belongs - shaking things up on the streets of the city!  

So, here's the question I wanted to ask - while those precious seconds of your life were being wasted by another car's safe driving practices, did you notice us plebians at the bus stop smiling at you?  I sure do hope so.  Furthermore, I hope you realize that the smiles did not come from a collective sense of awe at your daring, nor from warm & wet sensations between our legs resulting from your car's animal magnetism . . . we were laughing at you, douchebag!

And although you were good for a quick laugh, I had almost forgotten about you, but then I saw the episode of "The Andy Griffith Show" where a bratty young Bill Bixby charges through town in a hot rod, and couldn't help being reminded of your spirit of entitlement.  From the moment the wealthy little turd knocks a turnip truck off the road, on through his complaints that Barney "treated a drunk like somebody important" (which, by the way could be a great rallying cry for Barflies!), I saw the events unfolding as a possible slice of your life.  But would you have the same redeeming qualities?  Would a couple of days in Mayberry, fishing with Andy and Opie, and sharing a Sunday dinner with Aunt Bea's fried chicken and biscuits and homemade ice cream with fresh strawberries un-douche you, as they did with Bill Pricksby?

Since it was drizzling (fine conditions for driving aggressively, by the way), you had the top up on the convertible.  Therefore, I coudn't look for a tell-tale bald spot which I suspect was lurking beneath.  Here's some math: bald pate + hot rod = mid-life crisis.

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