Breeder bins and automotive philanthropists

In the previous, inaugural post, the author classified Bostonian drivers into two classes: The vegetating procession and the madmen. Here is a sequel.

A special subclass of the veggies is reserved for the commanders of breeder bins, which are devices also known as vans. You know, those big, ungainly things, with enough glass windows to outfit a shopping mall plus sliding doors gallore for good merit. Purely due to their sheer girth, these things afford their commanders a perfect command over any piece of tarmac. Such command is then also promptly exercised at the most frightfully frustrating pace. Breeder bins turn and stop just where their commanders desire, other traffic notwithstanding. Imagination seizes to fathom the breadth and width of the insane maneouvers that breeder bin commanders can envision. Do not hope for a bit of fun joining a freeway with a breeder bin ahead on the on-ramp. Expect a traffic jam behind a breeder bin stopped at an unholy spot in peak traffic so the commander can pick up or drop off whatever the mission demands. Breeder bin commanders hate to walk, even more so than other Bostonians.

Then we have the automotive philanthropists. These creatures can be from either the veggies or the madmen, with the first group more likely. As careful research will surely bear out, an automotive philanthropist is the single, biggest cause of unimaginable traffic disasters. Nowhere else in the world has this author come across a more misguided maneouver. Picture this: In suburban traffic trundeling along at a peppy pace, the philanthropist endeavours to earn brownie points somewhere only God knows by stopping in the middle of the moving traffic to obstruct against all expectation; logic; perfectly functional existing traffic regulation and natural flow, to allow across two lanes of traffic, approaching from both directions, some cross traffic comprising one single car. Suddenly, this philanthropist has turned into an instant traffic light - unfortunately, with most bulbs blown it would seem.

And so it goes and so it goes. Let's retire to the Boston Common.