I’ve survived for a decade and a half, which means that society believes I’m mature enough to operate a motor vehicle unsupervised. Frankly, though, I’m scared of society operating motor vehicles.
While my father and I recently drove home, a car swung from a parking lot and nearly smashed into us. The driver apologized profusely for the mistake and pointed over and over at his ONE EYE. Now, I have nothing against the visually impaired, but can somebody please tell me WHY a man with HALF-FUNCTIONING VISION is allowed to DRIVE, which usually requires the ability to LOOK WHERE YOU’RE GOING?!?
Another example of Anchorage drivers: I was enjoying the greasy delights of McDonald’s, not paying any attention to the parking lot outside, when a guy DROVE THROUGH THE WINDOW OVERLOOKING MY TABLE. His car jumped the curb, the sidewalk, and a bicycle rack, and crashed into the fast food eatery less than three feet from where I was sitting. Glass shattered everywhere. People screamed. Thanks to jerks like this, my father won’t let me drive until the snow melts in April.
Dad also forced me to go to driver’s education, an experience that consisted of sitting in a classroom for eight hours, watching crash footage not allowed in public schools anymore. It was revolting: decapitated bodies, wads of flesh caught between crumpled steel, blood splattered everywhere . . . I loved every second!
When the vehicular snuff film fest was over, the instructor—a retired policeman—told us a heartwarming story: “When I was a cop, I once had to go to an accident scene. A station wagon had crashed into a tree. All of the other cops were covering their mouths in shock or vomiting. Two blonde teenage girls—sisters—had their heads severed in the crash. Everyone else felt too sick to do it, so I grabbed a couple of sacks, walked up to the heads, and lifted them into the air; I had one in each hand, holding them by the hair, and as I turned around to place them in the sacks, I saw their mother, watching me in horror. We had to pay for six months of psychotherapy.”
This was a horrible tragedy, but a good lesson. Even though my father won’t let me drive until the spring, I made him a promise: I’ll buckle up and drive safely through all those dangerous red lights.