From the ever-increasing “Why do we bother to bitch?” files, here’s a very practical suggestion: Let’s just do away with speed-limit signs.

At this point in time, why do they even exist?

This isn’t coming from a toddling old geezer barely able to see over a steering wheel through glasses as thick as a Citronella candle. I regularly exceed the speed limit by five or 10 miles an hour.

The scary thing is, while zipping along at 65 in a 55 mile-an-hour zone, my car and I often wind up spinning around in a cloud of dust like Wile E. Coyote getting sideswiped by the Road Runner.

Speed limit, we don’t need no steenkin’ speed limit.

That’s the mantra of the majority of wackadoos that have somehow managed to be issued drivers’ licenses.

Make you a bet.

Take the Datsun out onto one of two thoroughfares – either the Rte. 422 by-pass or Rte. 202 – at a time when traffic isn’t backed up to Blue Bell. Now, count the number of vehicles you witness driving within the parameters of the so-called 55 miles-per-hour speed limit – go ahead, even give them up to 62.

If you’re on either road for 10 miles or more and count up to five, you win the bet.

I’m confident my betting record will remain the very epitome of perfection..

From the second Mr. or Ms. Lead Foot hit the motorway these days, those black-and-white speed limit signs may as well have been buried in a hole by a rabid gopher. The rule of thumb is, whatever or whoever it is, pass it. If you can’t get around on the outside, go on the inside, drive over them, go airborne if necessary.

If no options for passing exist, blow your horn and immediately begin flashing the half-peace sign as frantically and as suggestively as possible.

And you know what, I don’t honestly care how fast some moron is driving, just as long as once or twice a month I see one of ‘em pulled over by the law.

But I might as well be waiting for something of intelligence to come out of the mouth of Sarah Palin.

I was doing my usual 62 while traveling east on 422 recently when essentially the entire contents of the left lane went flying by me like it was first-come, first-serve free gas off the next exit ramp.

But instead of getting my knickers in a twist, I began smiling as if a $50 bill had just blown in the window. I knew something these inconsiderate ass wipes didn’t – there was a speed trap just ahead, a place where, 24-7, a cop sat. Consistently. As in, all the time.

This was a lawman’s wet dream. He could’ve been writing tickets until carpal tunnel set in. He could start his own conga line with the speedsters he’d have lined up on the side of the road.

Moments after the speeding scofflaws sped by I was going to see justice served.

Sure enough, as I cleared the ridge that I knew lay just before my law-laden nirvana, I saw the police car. Yes, oh glorious yes, he was there.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see anything resembling an automobile pulled over accompanied by flashing red-and-white lights.

Barney Fife simply let them all go by.

Now, if the cops don’t even blink when a driver exceeds the speed limit by triple figures, why should anyone else?

The fact is, no one else does these days.

As for the damn signs, take each and every one of ‘em down.

And why do we bother to bitch?