Text and Die

On an unexpected route home from the office this evening, I found myself confronted with the question of what sins I had committed that would warrant getting stuck behind the driver that blocked my homeward progress. Why have you forsaken me? I cried in anguish. Not only was this motorist driving 10 miles below the speed limit, but he was all over his lane! If it hadn't been just shy of 5 pm, I would have assumed this individual was under the influence...

...of Satan!

He continued for two miles, weaving inexplicably, driving at a snail's pace, and maintaining a good quarter mile space cushion between himself and the car in front of him. This person was clearly in no position to drive anything. 

As we approached the intersection and I pulled beside him in the left turning lane, I expected a couple of things. Perhaps an elderly woman. Or someone with a compromised intellect. Or maybe someone with no arms. But no. What I saw next was much worse than I expected. I scarce believed my eyes.

Behind the wheel was a punk kid, apparently steering his vehicle with the underside of both forearms, leaving his hands free to grip his cell phone, double-thumb texting the entire time. 

Strong was the urge to inflict bodily harm. 

But I refrained. 

To the punk kid who wants to text and die, I send this message: Make sure you hit a telephone pole, and not my family's van. 

I've said too much.