Nuke a bag of popcorn. Sit down. Relax. I’m gonna reach into my dusty past and tell you a true story.
Let’s see…I was about 25-years-old and dead leaves were falling from oak trees. It was autumn. Cold and grey. You know. The type of weather that would give Ichabod Crane a massive hardon. I put on my
cloak coat and drove to my friend’s house. The trip took about 35 minutes—zooming through a few country towns and some isolated roads. No big deal.
The return trip was easy-peasy. Or so it seemed. I sailed down the road. Listened to some rocking tunes. And that’s when I saw it.
A random road check.
Wait. Do you know what that is? Allow me to enlighten you. A random road check involves a kind police officer checking your sobriety, or perhaps observing to see if you forgot to buckle up. It’s the damn law, of course. The officer waved at me. You know what that means. My turn to be checked.
The car window was already rolled down. I’m a professional.
The police officer smiled. “How are you?”
(Let’s go ahead and refer to this officer as “Mahoney”).
I smiled too. “Fantastic.”
Officer Mahoney’s eyes rolled in their sockets and stuttered to a dead stop. He found something. “Yeah, ummm, pull over to the side. Thank you.”
My stomach imploded—it was like I was swirling down a bathtub drain. There was something illegal in my front coat pocket. I forgot to mention that important fact. Sorry.
Officer Mahoney strutted toward the car window. “Get out.”
He didn’t have to ask me twice. I did what I was told. He poked his bald head in my car and then glared into my soul. “Do you have anything on you?”
I already told you there was something special inside my front coat pocket. This was a very awkward situation. I’m not sure if you ever experienced something like this, but it’s kind of like being scolded by a principal…who happens to be carrying a gun. I didn’t try to bullshit my way out. Not my style. I forfeited my bag of grass and his pudgy face swelled up like a volcano. He reached into my car and confiscated a flail.
I see that funny look on your face.
A flail is a medieval weapon that features a wooden handle, chain, and spiked ball. Nothing major. My flail so happened to have three spiked balls. You know. For extra intimidation. The observant officer also discovered a sword-cane. Yup. A sword-cane. I’ll let your imagination figure out what that is.
What? Don’t you have a flail and sword-cane inside your car? No? Oops.
A flail, sword-cane, AND weed—all three lovely artifacts rested ontop my car. I placed my hands in my pockets. Officer Mahoney snarled. “It’s not that cold.”
I took his advice and decided not to use my pockets.
A few more bumbling officers rummaged through my car. They placed my telescope bag ontop my car and that’s the precise moment when time stretched like taffy. I was waiting for one of the officers to zip open my telescope bag and send me to straight to hell. I was already wading through an ankle-deep shit swamp, so if they discovered any more artifacts, I would be toasted over the fire of justice. Believe me. There was quite the artifact inside the telescope bag (more grass, of course).
The officers tossed the telescope bag like a hot potato. No one looked inside. They must have received their extensive training from watching “Police Academy”.
A local police sergeant spoke a few words. He said something like this, “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I can’t call a tow truck. We’ll park your car in the nearest lot and then issue a non-surety bond.”
I nodded. “Great, just do me a favor: lockup my telescope bag inside the trunk. Thanks.”
Uncomfortable cuffs constricted my wrists, legal documents were processed, and then I was issued a court date. Eventually, I received about 50 hours of community service, which involved picking up trash off the street. We found all sorts of lovely things: empty liquor bottles, bullets…and some weed. You can’t write this shit. Even though I just did.
I also had to participate in a special program. No shit, Sherlock—when you bust someone for grass—their piss is gonna be dirty. Seems like a logical conclusion. I suppose the state of Connecticut just wants to make sure.
Nope. No one opened my telescope bag, either. Just in case you were wondering.
The weapons charge was dropped. Lucky me.
Despite my misadventure, I still made it home to ruin Thanksgiving dinner. Try maintaining your dignity while eating stuffing and mashed potatoes.
They say nothing is faster than the speed of light. That’s incorrect. The speed at which things go wrong is much, much faster.