Years ago, when I was much younger and dumber, I sometimes drove after drinking too much, occasionally even with a beer in hand. Once a state policeman stopped me leaving the small town of Joseph, Ore., and asked me to count backwards, touch my toes and walk a line. Fortunately, he knew me, and so he just suggested gently that I get in the passenger seat and let my wife drive home. There was also the time after a full and fabulous day at the ski run, when, sipping that last beer as we headed for home on the back roads, I hit a patch of ice and slipped into the barrow pit. Again, fortunately, the only damage was to my ego, and all my law-breaking and stupid behavior took place at low speeds on quiet roads. Then along came Mothers Against Drunk Driving with its memorable acronym, MADD.
Of cars, booze, guns and angry mothers
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