Let me cross the road in peace, you miserable motherhubbards

I know there’s a hierarchy on the streets of Philadelphia (“Bournemouth, also the rest of the world”). And I know that I, as a perennial pedestrian, am always going to be at the very bottom of this pecking order.

I’m okay with that. I understand that. I’ve accepted my place as a non-driving, non-biking, non-public transporting, non-skateboarding, non-boogie-board-on-the-roading, non-Heelieing piece of shit. That’s what I am. Fine. Okay.

But the next time a twat in any vehicle decides zebra or pelican crossings don’t apply to them, I am not going to be held responsible for my actions.

Today it was an angry shrug with an angry face mouthing “what?” in an angry way at the back of a 4×4. Tomorrow it could well be me saying “prick” aloud. The day after that? Armageddon, no doubt.

I know it inconveniences you bevehicled folks so much when you have to wait an extra ten seconds to be able to make progress on the roads, but I too am usually heading somewhere when I’m walking. If it were up to me I would never cross roads, but unfortunately some selfish prannock decided that they would put them everywhere, thus necessitating me walking across them.

The other thing about roads is morons in cars and other miscellaneous vehicles drive on them, and they’re not always going to stop without being prompted to by some act of the law. Hence the aforementioned crossings.

Now I am sorry – I am. I know that if you don’t get wherever you’re going within the next one second most of the western hemisphere will burn in nuclear fire, kickstarting a domino effect that ultimately ends in the destruction of humanity as we know it. I know you’re just That Fucking Important.

But if you ever drive through a cunting red light when I’m about to fucking cross the road again, you’d better hope I don’t have my grenade launcher on me.

(NOTE TO SELF: Buy grenade launcher)

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