Dashtop computers

A temptation for a blogger is to turn the blog into a personal gripe forum.  How tedious those are to read!  And the most tempting target – in these parts, anyway – has got to be driving.

So here I go, against my better judgment.  I could complain about all my driving pet peeves (my wife would say I have a whole zoo’s worth) such as playing “exit chicken”, tailgating, hogging the middle lane, and SUV’s in general.  Instead, I’ll write about something that’s more than a peeve; it’s life-and-death.

Two days ago, I saw something I’ve never seen before.  Unlike my llama-in-the-rehab experience, I hope never to see this again.  We’re all aware of the dangers of texting while driving.  On a busy, major, three-lane highway, I saw a guy working on a laptop sitting on his dashboard right behind his steering wheel.  You read right.  A laptop.  On the dashboard.  In use.  While driving.

Folks!  When you’re driving a car, you are (barely) in control of a one- to three-ton, steel and glass, explosive-fuel-powered missile, nothing less.  To not have that be the primary focus of your attention is borderline criminal.

I am regularly grateful that I have so far survived my many years of driving experience.  Nor have I harmed anyone else.  I can only attribute those facts to the grace of God.  Just think: Every instant your attention is not on the road before you is an opportunity for a vehicle, person, or other impediment to appear before you.  By extending those instants into longer periods of time, you’re gambling.  And the stakes are high indeed.

Imagine if a professional train engineer, bus driver, or airline pilot ever allowed his or her attention to be compromised by texting or… Oh yeah.  They did.  And at what cost!

Before you text, call, or read that newspaper, (or, God forbid, use your laptop!) please think about those who love you and would miss you.  Then think about the consequences of taking the life of another human being.  If you’re in a gambling mood, go to Foxwoods instead.  That’s only money.

— End Rant —


About rickconti

It's not about me, remember?
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