The other night some guy ran into us. We’re both ok- we actually hardly felt it. Unfortunately for him, though, he doesn’t own a jeep.

Reno has to qualify for “totally illogical and life-threatening cross-walk capital.” On average, I believe 6 people die every day here in crosswalk related accidents. The problem is, slot-machine patrons can’t be bothered with the little push-button style traffic lights, so about every 50 feet there’s a cross-walk with nothing more than a little bitty sign to warn drivers. On a 40 mph street.

Nice.

So you’re chugging along on your way to Wal-Mart for a new plastic garbage can because your wife has detected some mystery smell on the old one that won’t wash off, and even though you have no idea what she’s talking about it wasn’t worth an argument and you’re sure there’s other stuff you need to get and HOLY CRAP THERES A FAMILY OF LEMMINGS! You slam on the brakes.

Well the poor dude behind me didn’t notice and I hear “SCREEAAACH… dnk.” He swerves off wildly. We both park and do the ancient ritual known as “the fender bender dance of the damage inspection and trading insurance information.” We execute it beautifully. His car looks inoperable, while mine has little more than a cracked light.

Later I asked my Cherokee if it was totally necessary to bitchslap his car like that. He reminded me that before him I used to drive a teal-blue Geo Storm and I best keep my pretty mouth shut. Touche.

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