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I drive surface streets at the speed limit. I ain’t in no hurry. You could take the highways if you need to speed, instead of riding my sweet little car’s ass like a coked-up 80s porn extra. When I’m walking, you could stop at the red light to let me Mister Natural across, instead of blowing the stop light in your frantic rush to get to the next, er, stop light. Oh… And you great big he-men from Vantucky, in your new four-door Jeep “Hummer Lites” or your jacked-up, ginormous, cloud spewing “rigs” — whatchoo hauling in that big ol’ truck a’ yourn, ‘sides a teeny weenie and a hyperinflated big-boy ego? Please consider staying on the other side of the Columbia, fly your Trump flags, pollute Vancouver’s air, mow down pedestrians in your own hood, and leave Portland free of your knuckle-dragging hoo-haws. And to all other Speed Racers, Macklemore sez it best: “Slow the fuck down,” please. Thank you. Muah.