Ohio Drivers Are Goobers and Other Things I Know

So I am blowing the dust off of this thing. I figure I could just let it wither and die, and maybe Alex would kick me off of the blogging team. No dice -- my managing editor, Sue (more popularly known as Sue-Bee), told me this morning that word has come down from the mothership in Wheeling: I am to blog at least once a week.

Huh.

So Wheeling is paying attention.

Crap.

Moving on ...

There are three axioms on driving in the Upper Ohio Valley:

1) If someone is driving five to ten miles under the speed limit, they will have West Virginia plates on their car.

2) If someone is driving ten to fifteen miles over the speed limit, they will have Pennsylvania plates on their car.

3) If someone is driving like a klarfing moron, they will have Ohio plates on their car.

Look, Ohio people, don't be offended. Just drive better, okay?

I don't know what kind of test you've got to take in order to get an Ohio driver's license, but I suspect it has a section involving searching through a box of carmel popcorn and nuts.

It's true. Yesterday, about one o'clock in the afternoon, I was rolling into Follansbee, and was nearly driven off the road by a woman driving a white minivan.

Look, it's like this: When you see that little sign indicating your lane is ending, you need to start looking for an opportunity to merge. What you do not do is blithely continue driving in your lane until it peters out, just assuming there won't be anyone in the lane beside you when you need to move your too-large vehicle over.

THE SIDEVIEW MIRROR IS NOT FOR CHECKING YOUR LIPSTICK!

At least, not while the car is in motion.

In addition to their poor driving skills, I have seen people from Ohio driving rolling junkyards. I swear I've seen cars held together with ducktape. You are afraid to touch the things, lest they dissolve into a pile of spare parts.

It's a sad state of affairs. At least the lawmakers over there were smart enough to finally force Ohio drivers to get insurance a couple years back.

At least now when you sideswipe me when driving your rickety bucket of bolts, I can get my car fixed.