Allow me to push up the sleeves of my big-shouldered '80s blazer, flip my mullet out of my collar, peer into my two-drink minimum audience, and inquire: "What's the deal with streetwalkers?"
I don't mean ladies of the evening, practicing the world's oldest profession. Or the world's second-oldest profession, if you happen to be of the same ilk as Charlene on Designing Women, who feared that her old friend Monette was a secret carpenter.
No, I am talking about literal streetwalkers. People who walk in the street, playing a deadly game of chicken with unsuspecting motorists. Do they not realize that they are outweighed by automobiles? That drivers must make the split-second decision whether to slam on the brakes and hope to come to a screeching stop, or swerve into oncoming traffic on a blind hill or curve? Is it too much to ask that the streetwalkers step off the pavement when a car is approaching? Really?
I can understand that there are no sidewalks on rural roads. That it is more comfortable to flap your flip-flops on smooth blacktop than on gravel or weedy slim shoulders, which may blow out your flip-flop, or get your feet wet with dew, or invite insect bites. But seriously, people. A side-mirror can take your head clean off. Use some common sense. Step off.
It doesn't help that around here, a maimed streetwalker could probably win a settlement against the law-abiding motorist. If he survived. Pity the underdog. The scofflaw. The fate-tempter. In the city, a milder form of streetwalking might earn the practitioner a jaywalking fine. But out here in the hinterlands, it's a free-for-all. Who's going to blink first? The streetwalkers obviously see the auto coming. They walk facing traffic. Presumably so they can see an oncoming car. But for what purpose? To step aside? Or to give that "I dare you" stare to the driver?
We won't even touch on the topic of Streetwalkers After Dark. And their clothing palette stolen from teenage emos.
Streetwalkers. Accidents waiting to happen.