So Tuesday night, on my way home from a particularly demeaning day of corporate graphic design drudgery, I had the radio on, the top down, trying to soak up the some of the sun’s soothing rays. It’s been raining here for what seems like weeks, and although the state needs it, it’s not much fun in a convertible in need of a new top.

But that day was sunny and a little cooler, so the top was down and as I cruised along the highway at the rush-hour speed of seven miles an hour, all I wanted to do was get home and crash. Which, of course, I couldn’t do, because I had several hours of freelance work left, but at least I could be at home in my totally disorganized and only partially unpacked apartment.

Once we finally escaped the freeway, traffic meandered through the streets at whatever speed it could, and seeing how this was the end of the day, we were all going five miles an hour over the limit, which put us at 45MPH on this particular stretch of the road.

Suddenly, interrupting my sunny, quiet ride home, comes a voice from above:

“Speed limit’s 40, buddy.”

Since we all know that God sounds more like James Earl Jones than Gilbert Gottfried, I knew it wasn’t Him, so I look around trying to figure out who it was. As I do so, I notice that others in their cars are doing the same thing, looking around as if to see where the voice had come from.

Good. If others heard it too, at least I wasn’t losing my mind.

Since we were all going with the flow of traffic, I ignored The Voice, until, again:

“In the blue convertible – speed limit’s 40.”

Okay, now that’s getting a little specific. Completely disregarding the cars around me and the street I’m on, I crane my neck to look around and see who’s talking to me, as does everyone else on the road. That’s when I see him – some clown in a truck a couple car lengths back, addressing me on a P.A. system.

The truck has a light bar on top of it, and in my mirror I can make out some kind of insignia on the door. Because I can’t tell if it is the seal for, say, the Sheriff’s Department, I decide against sending him the bird or lighting the wheels up and zipping away, I keep my speed and we get stopped at the next red light. Stopped, I can tell that the seal on the side is the State of the Great State of Arizona, so there’s a chance it could be Highway Patrol, or who knows what else. I figure that with the day I’d had, I should probably just let the idiot go by so I’m not tempted to antagonize him. Even though I wasn’t really going that direction, I signal and turn right up a side street.

Of course the dude turns too.

“Speed limit’s 35 here, buddy.”

By now, I couldn’t care less. It’s one of those days that I’m glad I don’t carry a gun, because I was about one public address comment away from a road-rage incident. Remember that movie Falling Down? As long as there are no children in the road, I’ll go whatever the hell speed I want. And it’s your fault too, mister vocal defender of the roadway.

Deciding now that if he had any kind of authority, he’d realize that if I speed up to get away from him there’s no way he could cite me without facing entrapment, so I punch it and zip away, to put some distance in between us. That’s my general policy with all persons crazy or otherwise mentally deranged, loudspeaker or not.

“35!” It comes again, louder now, it echoes through the neighborhood.

Up ahead, I see the upcoming stop light change to yellow. If I speed up, I’ll end up running the red light, and if I don’t, this idiot will be stopped behind me, loudspeaker ringing for all to hear, and I’m just not in the mood. Without slowing down, I veer left down another side street, and fading into the distance behind me is the “25 on that one, buddy!”

By now I was seething. I actually hoped that when I popped back out on the main street that this tool was in front of me so I could shout his speed into the back of his head. Or at least get his license plates. Alas, he was no where to be found. All the rest of the way home I wondered how fast I was going, since now, I was without an asshat to announce it to me. Oh, if only there was some sort of device on my dash that could ease my confusion!

So, let’s recap, pointed directly at you with the P.A. system: in an effort to slow one specific car down in a sea of cars, all whom were going five miles over the speed limit, you, mister State Employee, use a piece of state property to verbally antagonize one of the taxpayers who not only paid for that truck, but your salary as well. Great plan! At least you’re being proactive. But just as food for thought, here are some bullet points as to why your well-thought-out, easy-to-implement idea had a 100% failure rate:

1. While trying to figure out where the nasally voice was coming from, myself, and about forty other drivers, took our eyes off the road, looked around and/or reached for our radios.
2. Your stupid back-seat driving antics had the effect of causing me to speed by an even greater amount, to get away from a potential Mayor McCrazy. And on residential streets, no less. Bonus points!
3. I was tempted to slam on my brakes so you would crash into the back of my car, which I’m sure you would have enjoyed.
4. Just because I don’t carry a weapon, doesn’t mean that others don’t. In Arizona, something like 30% of the cars on the road have a gun in them. With those odds, and your obvious predisposition as a people-person, I hope your truck is bullet proof. Or at least your cranium.
5. And lastly, and probably more importantly, I am not your buddy.