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.