I'm a decrepit old man. If you see me waiting to cross the street, and you slow your your racer to a rolling crawl, forcing me to hurriedly hobble across while you impatiently start revving four-banger cuz I'm not walking fast enough — fuck off, and drive on. I'd rather cross peacefully, without engaging in transactional anger with a nil-for-brains PIR wannabee who had a moment of street courtesy but then changed his mind. And yep, your plates often betray you as a likely Vantuckian. Enjoy your visit to the scrap metal buyer, meth dealer, titty bar, Harbor Freight, or wherever you stump jockeys go in Portland on your days off.
The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.