by Anonymous Logician, Copyright March 13, 2006, all rights reserved. 635 views
I was born in Pittsburgh, and I spent most of my not-too-numerous years there. So I have a certain loyalty to the 'Burgh and to Pennsylvania. You may recall my excitement over this year's Super Bowl results.
Anyway, even as a PA native, I have to admit that the direction the state has gone politically, to put it bluntly, sucks. PA boasts some of the nation's most schoolmarmish homeschool regs, makes getting a driver's license more of a pain than usual, and is sure to please bureaucrats in numerous other ways.
But I see one of the most ludicrous examples of PA extremes every Sunday. My family attends church in Ephrata, a while north of our home in Maryland. Our return trip takes us down PA-41 South, and it's here that the wise folks at PENNDOT have planted the most ridiculous set of road signs I've ever seen, all within a stretch of a few miles.
The first yellow sentinel to warn me says, "Buckle Up–It's the Law." Well, duh. That's another can of worms, but my seat belt's securely fastened anyway. So I let the warning slide. Then, a few hundred yards later: "Buckle Up Every Time." Now I'm puzzled. Do they think I'm an attorney, looking for some kind of loophole? "But officer, I buckle my seat belt." "It says 'every time,' buddy." "Oh, dang." Got me there.
At this point the road signs shift from hairsplitting to Pharisaical. "Don't Tailgate," another of the signs announces. I don't tailgate. But I hardly need this yellow monstrosity to tell me that. As if the jerks who do tailgate would listen anyway. And I'm sure the good blokes at the Highway authority fast twice a week, and tithe from the mint and cummin.
The signs now move from bad cop to good cop. "Beware of Aggressive Drivers," I read. Okay. Now PENNDOT is my ally, giving me a friendly warning about the guy in front or the girl behind me. Like feminism's view of men, everyone with whom I share the road is a potential aggressor. I suppose they'd want me to turn on my fellow drivers, too. Rat them out. It kind of reminds me of an amusing line from Frederick Forsyth's The Day of the Jackal. When French police seek to track down a professional assassin hired to kill Charles DeGaulle, one stubborn peasant lies about the stranger's whereabouts. He tells his wife afterward that it'll never be said that he ever delivered a fellow creature up to them.
Meanwhile, on Rt. 41, the good cop routine has been replaced by something more patronizing. "Keep Min 2 Dots Apart." And, lo, I looked and beheld white dots on the asphalt to aid my spacing. Great. So if I was a schyster lawyer before, now I'm retarded. I can't even be trusted to judge a safe distance for myself. But I drive on. Just in case a moron like myself forgot why the dots were there, the next sign begs me to "Maintain a Safe Following Distance."
I drive on. Not more than a hundred yards or so, another beastly sign bursts onto my sight. "Slow Down, Save a Life," this one says. So while before I was a retard, now I'm a murdering SOB who's a risk to others. But this encouraging morsel of wisdom leads to another: "Buckle Up Every Time." Now unless I am an idiot, I just saw that one not more than half a mile back. So as far as PENNDOT is concerned, I'm back in retarded status.
In case this news might prove overwhelming, they reassure me that they're still on my side by re-offering the friendly, "Beware Aggressive Drivers." I accept the warning cheerfully. Since I'm clearly mentally impaired, I probably don't remember that they said this a few football fields behind me.
Things get tricky at this point. The Highway bureaucrats don't want me to get too puffed up, so they gently bring back the previous warning: "Buckle Up Every Time." I am sobered. "Not just part of the time," I remind myself. "Not even most of the time. Buckle up every time."
Another quarter mile or so brings me to the end of this leg of my trip. I turn onto another road with a more somber outlook on life, but still retaining a marginal joy at the affection in which the state holds me. But as I pull the wheel right, swinging the Honda onto PA-10, I happen to look left at the continuing stretch of Rt. 41. I look twice. Was it? Yes. Another yellow sign.
Buckle Up–It's the Law.