From the Mar 7 – Mar 13, 2002 issue

Columns

I, Anonymous

Dear Drivers: I want to confess, so that you know I'm out there. I am tired of hearing about people, who are just trying to cross the damn street, being hit by your impatient asses. I walk. I don't own a car. I hate cars. Every day, I am confronted by one of your ilk trying to squeeze just 10 more seconds out of your hour-long commute, as I try to use the crosswalk in my 10-minute commute. Usually, I just manage to dodge a near-collision trying to save my scrawny ass, but sometimes, I manage to get my due. I carry things: sharp things; heavy, club-like things; things that obscure your vision when splashed across your windshield. You in the green minivan, do you remember that almost-full cup of coffee across your windshield that almost made you crash? That was worth a buck. Hey, bitch in the red sports car, did you pee your pants when I put that dent in your fender yesterday? I hope that key-scratch all the way down that brand new BMW cost you a bundle, you insipid, self-absorbed jerk. It sure was funny watching you get stopped at that next red light, which of course you could have avoided if you had just waited for me for a few seconds.

--Anonymous