We’ve spoken, perhaps, on the many ways in which I try to enrich my city, the fair metropolis of Minneapolis.
There’s my “I’m-picking-up-yer-trash” day in the park across the street from my house.
There’s the fact that, in a continued effort to beautify America I not only wear lipstick when I go out but I also wear real pants and shoes, a fashion convention that seems to have gone the way of the passenger pigeon in some parts of the state.
And there’s my oft-repeated vision for revenue that includes pelting bound vandals with reasonably priced and rotted vegetables, all for the benefit of the community.
I like Minneapolis; and other than the fact that the weather here wants to kill me (and makes just such an attempt every winter, the little lake-dotted bestid), I have no plans to live anywhere else.
City living! Yeah!
And then again, for cryin’ out loud, I live in the city.
Oh, sure. I mean, I hear what you’re saying. “But Pearl! Sidewalks and mature trees! Fabulous places to eat, live bands, theatre, public transport and neighborhoods with neighbors you know!”
And I think, gosh darn it, you! You’re right. What’s my problem, anyway?
The newest issue to rear its head and make me reach for the club I keep in the backseat?
People walking down the middle of the street.
Remember when you were little? Remember people telling you to stay out of the road, to stay on the sidewalk, to watch for cars?
Yeah. These people didn’t have that advantage, apparently. For some reason – and maybe you can help me out here – there are people who believe that the road is meant for peds.
You know, I don’t mind the peds xing*. But what about when they’re not xing? What about when they’re just walking down the middle of the street, even when your lights are on them, even when you have to brake to avoid grinding the little pin-heads into the tarmac? What about when harsh, short words are exchanged and I begin to feel for the mace on my key chain and think about swinging around the block for a second time just to see how far this guy can run when he’s blind?
The rules are clear: Ducks don’t date geese; it gets easier to gain weight as you age; and your soft, unshielded body is no match for my Honda. Get outta the street.
The following is a list of reasons I believe may explain what’s going through these nitwits’ heads as well as reminders to myself that they are humanoid beings with families who love them:
- Heavy medication. They simply don’t know where they are.
- Fear of the sidewalk. They fell on the sidewalk once and never again.
- It’s the first road they’ve ever seen and they just love it.
- Erectile dysfunction. (I just like saying that.)
- Grandiose sense of entitlement. You move.
- They hope you will hit them so that they can sue you and make a billion dollars and never have to work…
Well, that’s my bit for both the City and Mankind. I pick up garbage, I wear pants, and I try not to crash my car into the mentally challenged.
My work here is done.
*Sorry. Since I was small I’ve enjoyed the thought of “peds” “x”ing.