I've been pulled over so many times that there's a cop who's full-time job it is to follow me around. He lives in a tent outside of my apartment. His badge says his name is Bill, but I call him "Stop following me!" Seriously though, I see members of the law enforcement more often than I see members of my own family. I can recite my Miranda rights from memory, even when I'm drunk. Actually, I have yet to try it sober. They even gave me a ticket speedscan. I can be pulled over, ticketed, and back on the road speeding all within 15 seconds. That's technology for you.
For a lot of people though, seeing those swirly lights elicits an almost hysterical fear, kind of like waking up in a kiddy pool full of poisonous spiders. Your heart starts to pound. You begin to sweat. You frantically clean your car, in case the cop mistakes your half-eaten sandwich for a dead hooker's severed torso. You prepare your license, your registration, your insurance card, your inspection sticker, your AA membership card, your library card, and your Sam's Club bonus card, and organize them alphabetically, so that he doesn't get pissed and shoot you in the head. Then you sit in a paralyzing fear, tears streaming down your ashen face as you absentmindedly chew on your forearm to keep from screaming.
After waiting for a minute, you decide to stop being such a pussy. You start concocting elaborate stories for why you were driving 85 through a school zone. You begin to nod to yourself in approval at your cunning genius, convinced that you will charm and outwit the cop. Then you hear a gentle tap on your window and jerk your head towards him, wide-eyed, looking like you had just escaped an asylum and killed three people. You weepingly admit to him every crime you have ever committed, as if you're confessing on your death bed. You admit with shame the time you overpoured your cereal when you were four. You weep with guilt over every ant you've stepped on. You agonize profusely over every stop sign you ran in the past half hour. Then you beg for mercy that he doesn't throw you in a jail cell with a dildo salesman. Finally, as your bawling subsides, the cop looks at you and says, "your break light is out. Get it checked out. Have a good day," and leaves.
You tell all your friends that you got pulled over for driving drunk through a supermarket, but you stayed cool and collected and talked the cop down to a warning. Then you tell them that you're really annoyed because your Dallas Cowboys cheerleader exgirlfriend keeps calling you. Then you climb onto your silver surfboard and fly to your penthouse on Mars.
But Bill knows the truth. He knows.
~Fuzzy
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