In the land of riches and plenty it appears that we’ve found a bastion of moderation as if the designers in Detroit, with pudgy palms and rounded shoulders raised, couldn’t possibly waste any design time on incorporating two square inches of yellow plastic and 4 centimeters (sorry, 1 and 9/16th inches) of wire into the 80 manuals of schematics that make up the average soccer mom's chariot.
No, apparently the designers have been too engrossed in maximizing the consumption possibilities of the triple overhead cam, double thrusted, 89.7 Liter buckets-of-fuel-injected, 25-cylinder beast stuffed under the bonnet. Which is difficult to contemplate when all I’m trying to do is concentrate on the glaring red lights in front of me, cos I can’t tell if this joker is breaking to swerve into another fast food palace or actually slowing down to conserve gas.
Hey, is that a Big Belly Maple Walnut Pancake outlet? I can make the turn, I know I can……
Brake Lights. No, seriously - Brake Lights.
Listen up - this is an important question for all you globe travelers: why, for the love of all that is good and holy, don’t American cars have indicator (a.k.a. signal) lights like every other car in the world so it’s possible to tell when the bastard in front of you is pulling over, with 0.2 seconds notice, to delight in his snap decision to buy a must-have Grand Mocha Latte from a ridiculously late night drive thru?
Or equally vexing where has the “ogh” gone in “Drive thru”, and what is a Grande Mocha Frothy anyway? Why is it appropriate to have either brake lights or indicators, but not both on the back of a US road whale? Why are they both crimson red in the otherwise choice-ridden land of the free and home of the brave? You didn't realize that was the case from where you're sitting? - trust me, from behind this wheel I know it's true.