Rick Nelson and Claude Peck dispense unasked-for advice about clothing, etiquette, culture, relationships, grooming and more.
CP: You are super cute when angry. Like last night, when you put the f-bomb back in the Fbook. Care to share?
RN: Pardon my French; that was just little-old-me having a minor nervous breakdown in front of my Facebook friends. My emotional well-being is never going to survive winter if I have any more commutes like that one.
CP: If one more person thinks it's OK to tailgate me while we are driving on sheet ice, I swear I'm moving to Boca.
RN: What is with that? Cretin Avenue has been transformed into an off-road glacier, and some Rambo in a Ford Explorer is so close he can see the hairs on the back of my neck. Visible, no doubt, from the glow of his phone, because of course he's also texting. Back off, Brenda!
CP: Note to world: Not everyone has high clearance and all-wheel-drive on command.
RN: And remember, some of us have automobiles that weigh less than a figgy pudding. Not so effective with the lovely combination of glare ice and not-so-flat roadways.
CP: I wish there was an app that would allow me to do all my winter driving directly behind a mammoth plow-and-salt truck.
RN: I wish the bulk of my winter driving was done from the driver's seat of a mammoth plow-and-salt truck.
CP: Also, when I see a bicyclist ahead I break out in a cold sweat, certain that just as I pull alongside, he or she will slip on the ice and become another grim statistic.
RN: Terrifying, right? When that happens, all I can think of is seeing the words "vehicular manslaughter" forever connected with my name, and envision my unpleasant roommate and the 6-by-8 suite we share at the workhouse.
CP: Might I humbly suggest, dear fellow drivers, that you not drive off with just a porthole-sized bit of scraped front windshield through which to peer? I commonly see people so lazy about snow removal that their glaciated death machines resemble igloos on wheels.
RN: What I find truly mystifying are the speeders. A blizzard has reduced visibility to less than a city block, I can barely coax my sad little sedan out of second gear without jackknifing, and you're fine with sailing past me at 60 miles per hour?
CP: For Christmas, you are so getting a bunch of 40-pound sandbags for your Ion. I don't care if they won't fit in your stocking.
RN: Thanks, but I'm more concerned about my trunk. It's already full of CDs I never listen to, plastic bags and milk bottles intended for the recycling station, old clothes meant for Value Village, you get the picture. No wonder I can't find my snow brush.
CP: Really? Last I looked, your trunk was chock-a-block with feather-light sweaters and oxford shirts. At least if you go in the ditch, you can be dressed like a J. Crew ad.
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