“I was so naive as a kid, I used to sneak behind the barn and do nothing.”- Johnny Carson; Back east, they’re making it tougher for teens to get that first driver’s license. States like Massachusetts and Florida are requiring an extra six months of training before pronouncing: “Go. Stick your bare butt out the driver’s side window while you play rap music doing 1,642 mph in an occupied kindergarten zone driving the wrong way with your no good hooligan friends.”

Actually, the goal of these programs in now half the 50 states is to teach those who were but three years old but 13 years earlier — deep breath, thai chi pose — patience.

I personally believe, now that I have my license, that people should be 40 before they are allowed to drive. Yes. If that were true in California, Cameron Smyth could run for congress, but he couldn’t drive there if elected.

I rarely see senior citizens roaring by me on Lyons Avenue on two wheels in a souped-up Toyota truck, which, by the way, is an oxymoron.

The other night, I had a teen — and I’m not kidding you here — make an instantaneous right angle turn from two lanes over from a dead stop that not so much cut in front of me but kissed my bumper with her passenger door.

And, she snickered.

I jammed on the brakes and almost did the Monster Truck Thing and climbed on top of her Barbie doll Celica. She thought it was funny.

So, bottom line, if there are new mounds of paperwork and grief to be created for the teenage driver, I, by cracky, am for it. The problem is, these new extra six-month training periods don’t go far enough. I don’t think teens should be allowed to listen to music until they’re 25. And then, they can only listen to Jon Bon Jovi on very low volume. If I were writing the legislation, I’d put in a mandatory Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” or “Blaze of Glory” and then, only on 8-track.

Would that be something? Detroit having to make special California car models that came dealer-prepped with a new driver Jon Bon Jovi two-song 8-track? And that if the teens tried to mess with the wiring and replace their 8-track with a hepcat daddy state-of-the-art new sound system, a blue ink bomb (the kind bank tellers put in bags of stolen money) would explode and we grown-ups would be one step ahead of them.

By cracky yet again.

I think teenage drivers should motor about dressed up like Baby Huey — bonnet, pacifier, duck bill, feathers and big giant huge diaper. That would certainly cut down on drive-by shootings and gang violence.

“Wuzsup-wuzsup-wuzsup. Let’s cruise down by the high school and shoot the wrong people to show the world how amazingly interesting we are,” says a home boy driving a lowered ’63 Chevy. There are 14 identical gang bangers stuffed into the car, all wearing bonnets, severe butch haircuts, pacifiers, duck bills, feathers and big giant huge diapers.

The diapers, of course, are falling off their butts.

“No, esse. Let’s go home and hide until we’re 31 and can wear adult clothes,” says a voice from the back seat. “It’s just too embarrassing to be seen in public like this. In fact, I just rue the day I got a driver’s license in the first place. It’s been nothing but a curse.”

“Aluminum siding,” the rest of the gang says.

‘Aluminum siding,’ as of 10:16 p.m. last night, was the absolute up-to-the-minute latest preferred street lingo of the in-the-know teenager. Loosely translated, it means, “I agree with you.” Here. Let’s practice.

“Aluminum siding,” I write.

“Aluminum siding,” the West Ranch Beacon blog-reading Santa Clarita Valley all repeats, in unison, except for the teens who are sulking because we’ve broken their code.

“I agree with you,” I write.

“I agree with you,” you repeat.

Swank.

I’ve always thought of myself as a progressive thinker, one who entertains divergent and sometimes unpopular social theories. With this issue of how to successfully integrate the teen into the highways and byways of America, one other possible solution is to go 180 degrees in the opposite way in our thinking.

We could just have the state government provide every teen, upon their 13th birthday, with a souped-up Mad Max V-8 engine loosely attached to a frame knitted from coat hangers and body made of graham crackers. The rest of us get urban assault all-iron Humvees. Those teens who make it to 19 by natural selection, wit or plain dumb luck will have our begrudging respect, and, of course, a new Humvee and driver’s license.

Cripes.

Double cripes.

My daughter just turned 9 — four years from a driver’s license.

I think I’ll just stick with my original premise of mandating driver’s licenses for when people turn 40. It’ll keep her around the house longer.

By cracky.

John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net