My slow and steady march towards insanity.

Someday, many, many years from now, when I lie on my deathbed hooked up to tubes and monitors, I will use my last breath to eke out a "Citizen Kane"-esque final phrase. And when everyone is sitting around wondering what the hell "9MPH" means, this blog posting from the year 2009 will be the answer.


I know it's not a big deal, but it's the little things that will ultimately lead me into a haze of alzheimers, schizophrenia and dementia. Things like trying to figure out why in the world this sign ever needed to be made (and in turn, why the rule it enforces is needed as well). Somewhere there's a sign shop where hundreds of "10MPH" signs are already produced and waiting to be sold and hung. But for some reason, the Tropicana Resort and Casino in Atlantic City (home of New Jersey's most mediocre Hooters franchise) feels the need to enforce a 9 mile per hour speed limit in their parking garage, and to place a sign reminding us of it at every possible turn. Really? Would gunning it up to 10 mph suddenly put life and limb in mortal danger? Is 9 scientifically proven to be the safe speed for degenerate gamblers looking to park their Kias and Saturns?

Whatever, it's just a stupid sign. But it bugged the living piss out of me.