Have you ever been delayed just before the light changes at a busy intersection? While incredibly pompous looking bald men driving cars of a most unpleasant shade of gangrene green make U-turns?

Have you ever been stuck behind an automobile that a discerning slug would scorn to own (if slugs could own automobiles)?

Has your car ever been clipped and its rear lights destroyed by moronic taxi drivers?
Have said taxi drivers chortled apologetically while you are dealing with a fit of apoplectic rage?

All of these things have happened to me.

It does not help that G, who drives us, is the meekest soul alive. The most fiendish of drivers draw, at most, a chuckle from him. This is while the seat belt is beginning to feel too tight to me, blood vessels are cording up at my temple, I am making various inarticulate noises, and words that I shall not sully any maidenly eyes that might be reading this with are rising unbidden to my lips.

I don’t think I can drive in this city. The stress would kill me.

The police are no help. Inexplicably, their sole desire seems to be the re-establishment of smooth traffic flow, and they simply refuse to let angry young men with disordered hair harangue catatonically stupid taxi drivers for any reasonable length of time.
I simply cannot understand this. I am put back in the car, kicking and gesticulating wildly, by the united efforts of tubby traffic constable and G.

I need a weapon. A thing of awesome power, something that would do the talking for me and would make even the most obtuse traffic cop look the other way as I flayed the skin off of offending drivers.

Excuse me while I experiment with attaching this meat cleaver to the end of this hockey stick.