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.