New Texting & Talking While Driving Law Nowhere Near Tough Enough"/>
Target Practice is our daily aim -- at a hypocritical politician, worthless law or random nincompoop -- at something or someone that deserves a bit of buckshot in the backside.
This moron should have to blow into a Textalyzer.
On June 10, talking or texting on one's cell phone becomes a primary offense in the state of Washington, punishable with a $124 fine.
Drivers can, however, conduct conversations by way of hands-free devices, a loophole that has commentators on the P-I's site claiming that the law discriminates against hearing-impaired drivers, for whom hands-free devices are essentially useless.
You know what else is useless? The stiffened-up law.If people want to enjoy the freedom of having distracting conversations -- hands-free or otherwise -- while operating a motor vehicle, often in excess of 60 miles per hour, then it's only fair that drunk driving and open container laws be repealed. I'd seriously rather see Kitty Dukakis with a bottle of rubbing alcohol glued to her lips at the wheel than some commercial real estate agent in a Mini Cooper, tapping away on his Crackberry.
But really, I'd rather not drive next to, or behind, either species of dodgy motorist, which is why the Cell/Text Act of 2010 should be amended to align penalties with those afforded drunk drivers. Instead of a Breathalyzer, cell addicts should have to blow into a Textalyzer and be challenged by the arresting officer to interpret the acronym "LMFAO." If the offending driver/texter answers correctly, the handcuffs go on, and if the officer's in a particularly surly mood, he can tack on some sort of penalty for uttering the word "fucking" to a cop.
As with drunk driving, a suspended license should certainly be at a judge's disposal when dealing with serial cellphone addicts. Repeat offenders should be required to use only rotary phones for a year, and mega-scofflaws should be forced to communicate exclusively via smoke signal, shouting, and strip-o-gram--or use the vintage '80s cell that Michael Douglas uses in Wall Street, the one that's the size of a croquet mallet, has a rabbit-ear antenna, and causes brain cancer.
I never thought I'd be nostalgic for the early aught-naughts, when Seattle's go-go tech boom spawned a thousand douchebags in mock turtlenecks, talking loudly, seemingly to themselves, as they pranced down the pavement with quasi-invisible earpieces negating their need to actually hold the phone. Now I just want to hug those fuckin' guys.