As I pulled into the Metamuville Grocery, a county sheriff was backing out of a parking space across the lot from my own. As he shifted from R to D, his cruiser was ambushed by a geriatric couple, whose arms were flailing so frantically that for a fleeting moment, I could have sworn I saw the couple levitate. I was no more interested in Elmer and Agnes than I am in any other local old farts, and I walked toward the store. And then I became aware that they were pointing toward me and my Jeep.
Straining, I could only get bits and pieces of the conversation. I've filled in the gaps as best I could.
"Blah blah blah, SO FAST, blah blah blah, we're unfathomably entitled, 100 MILES AN HOUR, blah blah, me me me, gimme gimme gimme, ALL THE TIME, blah blah blah, Elmer hasn't gotten it up since Eisenhower's first term, blah blah, EVEN PASSES US ON SPEED BUMPS, DRIVE US CRAZY."
In the middle of their histrionics, the cop, about my age, locked eyes with me and smirked. And with them still ranting, he slowly pulled away.