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"You do know you're talking to yourself, right?"

"I'm talking to the guy in front of me!" I counter, justifying my sanity. "He's poking along at 50 in a 50km zone," I annoyingly state, with one hand on the wheel and the other tapping the horn. "Come on, grandpa, let's move it!"

"Good job, grandpa," says the wife, as she reminds me that I have reproduced children. "That's telling him. But if you really want him to hear you, you should turn off the radio, roll down the window, drive up alongside, stick your head out and mention to the - and here I use your definition - circus-performing Bozo that you would like him to break the law by speeding so that you can get home to watch the news. Otherwise, you're just talking to yourself, old man!"

As much as I'd like to disagree with her, she's absolutely right. I do a lot of talking to the unhearing forces that determine traffic. Cars and the clowns who are suppose to be driving them. I talk to all makes of cars and trucks, imports and domestic, black or white, luxury or compact. If they happen to be on either side of me, in front of me or behind me, I strike up a one-sided conversation. I guide them along in the tone of an annoyed parent of a 4-year-old. I use words of direction like, "Come on, let's get moving!" or "Get off your brake and try the gas pedal!" or "Turn! Turn! Don't wait for the light to turn red before you go!" And with every direction, I interject "Ya, clown!" Male or female, black or white, tall or short, everyone I submit my heated direction to is a circus adventurer of humor.

It's an annoyed tone, not a mad one. Mad people do things. We who are annoyed just go home and bore the family with yet another tirade, one that somehow keeps them from committing me to a home for the socially insane. People seem to accept others being annoyed, or upset with inanimate objects. I don't like the toaster reminding me it's electric when I use my jam knife to free the toast. If people or objects cause problems, we're going to let them know about it. There are more people than just me out there raising their fists to the sky and screaming at the heavens, "Thank you very much!' when their cars break down at the side of the road or the jam knife becomes welded to the inside of the toaster.

If you ever talked lovingly to a car or toaster about how good they are and you're so proud of them for what they're doing, then it's off to the home with you. If your car's running great, I say treat it like an upset spouse and keep your mouth shut. If traffic is moving along and all the clowns are right with the universe, whistle. Don't say encouraging things to the clowns beside you, whatever you do. Cause that's when authorities start visiting the family and doctor's appointments happen. Seems we can't be happy in traffic.

Old guys didn't get old by driving along distracted. We figured out long ago what all the traffic around us was doing and how we could do it better.

You should try it. Take my one-week challenge and talk to the cars around you. If you're worried people might think you're nuts, stuff a black piece of Play-Doh in your ear and let them think it's part of your iPhone thingy. (It's what I do). Tell that car in front of you when to turn. The one behind you to get off your bumper. Warn the clown in front there's a pedestrian in the crosswalk. You'll be a better driver. You'll be annoyed, but you'll be a better driver.

And you'd better get used to being annoyed because it's a free gift that comes with age. Driving is just one way it manifests itself. How? Well let's start with, everything hurts! Doing shoulder checks while sitting in some crappy 25-year-old Buick for more than five minutes produces squeaking and leaking from both parties.

It's annoying. About as annoying as Richmond giving out more tickets for clowns illegally parking in the handicapped space than any other city in the lower mainland! "When did the handicap symbol become the very expensive parking near the door symbol?"

"Are you talking to me?" the wife questions as she sticks her head from the kitchen.

"No, I'm talking to the TV! I can't believe the story on the news about all the parking tickets. Clowns parking illegally!"

"You do know you're talking to yourself, right?"

- Bob Niles

Bob Niles, who answers to Robert, Bobby, Dad, Grandpa, Unit No.2 (his Dad could never remember all the children's names) honey and super hero, is new to writing but not to storytelling. "I like to make people laugh and to think, with a secret desire make them dance and send me untraceable $100 bills in the mail," says the happily married, retired father and grandpa from Richmond in British Columbia, Canada. He blogs at superiordribble.blogspot.com.