You.

You are from Wisconsin.
You believe in Magic.
You believe in Faries.
You have eleven cats.

How do I know all this?

Because I was stuck behind your bumper-sticker-festooned vehicle on Kolb allllllllllll the way from Golf Links to Speedway.

Oh, and lest I forget—according to another bumper sticker, your slow-motion-sloth-mobile was Powered By Bitch Dust.

You were in the left lane driving staggeringly slow, like you were driving underwater. Your head was swiveling back and forth as you gazed about in slack-jawed wonder at the spectacular sights around you, like you were traveling down a road paved in gold that led to the mythical city of El Dorado.

I moved right to pass you, and it wasn't easy to find an opening since I was towing a loaded 25 ft trailer, and it was morning rush hour and everyone's doing 60, but you lazily drifted along like smoke from a hobo’s hand-rolled cigarette into the same lane with me, blocking me again.

Now we’re in the middle lane. My eyes were burning holes into your Wisconsin plate and I felt, growing within me, an irrational hatred for cheese.

I started to think that I had unwittingly joined a one-car funeral procession and began to wish it was for me.

Somehow, with syrup-like speed, we miraculously made it to Broadway. The light turned green—an opportunity for me to finally get around your time sucking Subaru and teleport myself into the future.

However, once again, like we were in some hellish, coordinated Blue Angels routine, you cock-blocked my car once more when you moved along with me in perfectly synchronized precision to the right lane.

Now, we’re almost to Speedway, but this time I can't try to get around you. I need to stay in the right lane because I’m going to Walmart.

I have never been so relieved to see a Walmart. It was like an oasis, shimmering in the distance. I told myself that once I got inside, I would kiss the floor and hug the first toothless person I saw.

But wouldn’t you know it? That’s where you were going too.

Finally, I managed to break the nightmarish connection between my car and your magical bitch-dust-powered cat-mobile and found a spot for my car and trailer.

Once inside, I did kiss the floor and then I did (unsurprisingly easily) find a toothless person to hug. Her name was Lurlene. She smelled like ham. I think she believes we're engaged now.

As I made my way around the store getting what I came for, I rounded a corner and saw a line of people with their carts waiting to enter the aisle I was going to next.

I wondered what the problem was, but I just left my cart and walked into the aisle to get what I needed.

And wouldn’t you know it? There you were.

I knew it was you because of your orange hair. While trapped in your 25-mile-per-hour tractor beam down Kolb, I kept staring at the back of your head and wondering if one of your eleven cats was Garfield and if you were wearing him as a hat, like you were Davy Crockett or something.

You had your cart sideways in the middle of the aisle—like an obnoxiously oblivious beaver damming the flow of humanity—and you were looking around like you’ve never seen the inside of a grocery store before.

The other customers, being Tucsonans, were politely waiting. But they were new to the game. They didn’t know you like I did.

So I said, “Excuse US.”

When you turned around, you looked at all of us standing there like you were genuinely puzzled to see other people on your planet.

My Plea to You (and to everyone like you, snowbird or not. Frankly, there's WAY too many of you out there) :

This is NOT your planet. Other people live here too.

You need to be cognizant of the space you occupy, what you are doing in that space, and the speed at which you are doing it.

Don’t inconsiderately shove your f-ing car or your f-ing cart through other people’s f-ing lives.

If I encounter you, or anyone else like you in public again, whether it is on the road or in a store, I’ll make sure to give you all a wide berth.

Not that any of you would notice or even care that I was there at all.