King of the Road

Dear Retard:

Yes I saw you in your very important looking chef's uniform, standing in the middle of the street. Yes, I saw you yelling at me.

Did you see my single-finger response?

I can only assume by your sweaty and swarthy fry-cook appearance, and by the fact that you were walking to work, that you probably live in the low-rent meth-a-palooza apartment complex on the right.

I have to admit, you were correct, I was in fact speeding through what could only euphemistically be called "your neighborhood." The posted speed limit was in fact 25 mph. In daring and reckless fashion, scoffing the law and throwing caution to the wind, I was pushing 30.

Really, did you see my finger? I mean, I rolled down my window and hoisted it high into the air, waiving it to and fro. You were standing there, stumpy arms crooked, fists resting disapprovingly on your hips, staring down my tailpipe as it disappeared into the distance.

Listen, perhaps you have been recently promoted to assistant kitchen manager at Denny's, or something. Perhaps you have been given god-like authority over Jose, the burger flipper, and Jolene, the Downs Syndrome floor mopper, but that does not make you a Portland street monitor. Your omnipotence does not carry outside of the restaurant.

Enjoy your walk.