Surprisingly, gas prices have managed to avoid the expected – and usual summer cost run-up. Some industry analysts predicted prices would exceed $5 per gallon by Memorial 
Day and reach $6 or $7 per gallon by July 4.
Perhaps that’s why the first four letters of analyst is “anal.” That aside, lower-than-predicted prices means more people are going to hit the roads and take more driving vacations rather than pay a ransom to the airlines for the privilege of being pissed on, lied to and treated like dirt. I spend a lot of time on the road conducting my various enterprises (are you listening, IRS?) and consequently I’ve noticed an annoying and all-too-frequent occurrence – especially on freeways. But first a disclosure.
Al Vinikour
Few things make me happier than somebody actually being held accountable for auto-related stupidity. There are many scenarios I can think of, like somebody looking down to either send or retrieve a text message and looking up just in time to realize he’s about to become the ultimate tree hugger. Or some drunk who has been riding the tail of an 18-wheeler for fivemiles – flashing his bright lights and honking his horn in the hopes the trucker will move out of the way…never once considering they’re traveling on a two-lane road. The trucker finally stops his rig, walks back to the drunk and proceeds to practice Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat medicine without a license by cleaning out the alky’s sinuses with a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum.
The assholes I’m thinking of for this rant are those dunderhead front-seat passengers who find it enjoyable to sit back and prop both legs on top of the dashboard. Or stick said legs out the passenger door window. I’m sure the former feels good to get the kinks out and the latter feels good to have a nice breeze blowing up your pant legs. To quote that master of subtleties, Forrest Gump, “Stupid is as stupid does.” Let’s closely examine each plan and see which one poses the bigger threat.
Let’s say you’re riding back from the ball game with your drinking buddy Marc Louis. You had 11 beers to his 8 at the game so he’s the designated driver. As you’re weaving in and out of your freeway lane, your legs get cramped up because the rows in the upper bleachers where you have season tickets have as much leg room as a Japan Air Lines 747 economy seat. So you slide your seat back all the way and stretch your legs out atop the dashboard. What the hell…it’s padded, isn’t it? Must be why it was made that way. As you sit there thinking life couldn’t get much sweeter you light up your unfiltered Camel to show the world you’re a man of distinction. All of a sudden an out-of-control ¾-ton pickup crosses the 
median and runs into Marc Louis’s 83 Chrysler head on…killing Mr. Louis instantly. You, on the other hand, didn’t quite get off so easy.
Because the driver’s side took the brunt of the impact, for the most part the passenger side held up rather well – at least structurally. But…and I say this will all possible sympathy…because your legs were touching the windshield from the full stretch you put on them they now are in the odd position of stepping on top of your own shoulders. Everybody including the curator of Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum is stopping to see this phenomenon first-hand. Besides the demise of your own self-propulsion you’re also responsible for the projectile vomiting of dozens, if not hundreds. To those arriving late your dilemma is as hard to understand as someone being a Katie Couric fan.
The second possibility can be just as disastrous. Again, you’re driving home with Marc Louis from the ball game and because it’s 97-degrees and his air-conditioning isn’t working you decide to cool off by sticking your legs out the window. A few miles down the road you mentally pat yourself on the back for the wonderful breeze you’re able to cool yourself off with. All of a sudden Marc goes to pass a line of slow-moving cars. As he gets even with the second car from the front the rear door window opens up and a ganja-smoking Caribbean Islander who is higher than the International Space Station sees your legs hanging out the 
window. Except to his long-since-burned-out brain it looks like two bananas hanging off a tree. He seems to recall that he either works at, or once worked at a banana plantation and his job is or was to take his pearl-handled machete that’s been passed down through 17 generations of banana wranglers and cut the fruits as high up the vines as he can. He just happens to have his machete with him so he figures he must be on the clock. You see what’s coming next, don’t you Gideon? That’s right…WHACK!!!!! Off the tree come the cleanly-sliced bananas. Except it’s no tree and no bananas…it’s your legs, Jocko!!!!! Nice going!!! You’re now not only cooler…you’re lighter since you’ve had the dead weight of your former legs removed from your torso. (Of course, your T-shirt will never come clean again.)
I don’t know what the odds are of either of these two events occurring; but why take a chance? If it can be thought of it could happen. The next time you want to do something as stupid as the two things I’ve mentioned in this piece…don’t! Just think of this because it’s apparent you haven’t been thinking of anything else…it’s awfully damned hard to walk away from an accident when you don’t have any legs. If Lieutenant Dan couldn’t do it then you sure as hell won’t either.
Al’s column typically runs Monday, but due to the holiday and his editor failing to download it, it’s running on Wednesday. It will return to Mondays next week.
