It’s been a pet peeve of mine for several years. On and off the air. Every time I drive into town to check the mail, go to the bank or run other errands, I hop on Interstate 25, exit 347 and off the middle exit. And every time I admire the choice decorations of wrecked cars, old trucks, gutted school buses, single wides with their roofs flapping in the breeze, 18-wheelers and mountains of wooden pallets along that stretch of I-25.
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