It is imperative that we check our packages several times a day for proper function and form. It's easier while sitting.
Not a chance, and I've been in a somewhat unique position to know. Here's a little story.....
In 2001, shortly after buying my Crown Vic, I had to make a trip to the other side of town. It still had the spotlight and pushbar and cop rims and shit. Pulling on the freeway had its usual effect; everybody hit the binders. Except for the wenchling in a metallic green Suburban, who sailed on by with her phone interred into her inner ear canal. Eager to slow down this menace to society, I tucked in behind her and waited for the inevitable. It never happened.
Yep, there we were, dog and pony, cruising the #1 lane at 92 in a posted 65. I could *feel* the slobbering anticipation of the other motorists, waiting for the devilishly handsome (accent on devilish) "uncercover" piggy to reel this one in like a guppy on a 50-lb line.
No go. Just all kindsa hand and arm gesticulations (musta been Eye-talyun) as Miss Motor Mouth 2001 fired away useless gossip like a howitzer on crystal. I was flabbermajistulagated at the sitch. FINALLY, as we approached the interchange, her gaze wandered into the sideview mirror and she freaked, hitting the brakes like a long-jumper on take-off. Fortunately, there's no way that barge could outstop my Po-leece anti-locks, or she'd have had a mod motor enema. She swerved into the next lane and looked like she'd just swallowed a time-release acid trip. Didn't drop that cell phone, though. Nosiree, bob.
Sixteen frickin' miles without seeing a cop car on her ass, hovering below the triple digit mark. If I'da been a real LEO, I'da hooked her butt up on a laundry list of charges, had that unsightly behemoth impounded, made a note to testify at her no-doubt upcoming divorce trial, and jumped up and down on her cell on the shoulder so the other doinks could get the picture.
That little scenario caused me to take note over the next 3 years as to who can "see" me and who can't. By an overwhelming margin, I am invisible to women yakking on the box. Men still manage to sense a barracuda in the fish tank no matter what, especially youthful minorities (go figure).
Now, I know it takes feminine talent to stretch 30 seconds worth of pertinent info into 15 minutes of dizzying hogwash, punctuated by outbursts over their husband's glaring {sexual, social, financial, fashion, all of the above} shortcomings. But, godammit to hell and back, enough is enough. And you can damn sure bet the next time your busine$$ call drops out in mid-negotiations, it's because 300 ass-tattooed, wearing bra with braless top, jackhammer-jawed SUV pilots have just overloaded the nearest cell tower into smoking up a Stage 3 Smog Alert.
Yeah, I hate 'em. But there's not much I can do except be content with cruisin' on down the highway, one hand on the wheel and the other on my crotch.