You know, back in your country – the one with the nuclear radars, the GPS, the remote control parking sensors up the giggity – you know all those softies on the tarmac? You know the type – soccer moms on the way to the mall, caffeine addicts driving about ten kilometers from the correct lane. Basically everyone on the road that gets in your way when you are constantly driving at two hundred kilometers an hour. These people take away from the whole "driving spectacle", if you will, in your cosseted nations. In Bucharest, however, we do not have this problem. You are not allowed to drive on the streets of Bucharest, unless you know how to swear in Romanian. The proficiency in cursing is usually measured in the time you can keep up the cussing without repeating yourself ad infinitum. This kee