Okay - my problems with the cops. Proclivities aside, Tim and BJ are my witnesses in the case of the 17th. On our way out of Bloomington, a state/highway car gets behind us. Because I am me, I get a little nervous. I go up and around the ramp and merge onto the highway. Assessing my bearings, I begin to accelerate, commenting, "Let's see if I can shake this cop." (A brief aside - I acknowledged the policeman's presence many minutes later when he first got behind me, saying, "Hello, cop.") No sooner do I say this than his lights go on. 'What the fuck' pervades the spirit of the car - none of us can identify an incongruity in my driving performance.
So I pull over, put my lights on, and ready my wallet. The highwayman mossies up to my window and I roll it down accordingly:
'Hello, gentleman.'
'Hello, sir.'
'Do you know why I pulled you over?'
'Honestly, sir - no fucking clue, you cunting son of a bitch.'
Of course I didn't say that, but U was sure thinking it. I can tell by now by the initial tone of voice in their greeting when cops are doing their dick routine. And this mother fucker was busting out the mondo cock. He was by no means a jerk, but his intent couldn't have been more bastardly. He said he wanted to make sure we weren't "on" anything, or up to anything suspicious, because I swayed a bit over the yellow merging line whilst taking the highway:
'Any reason to be nervous having a policeman behind you, boys?'
'Yeah - because you're all fear-mongering douche bags.'
Again, I didn't actually say that, but goddamn I wish I hadn't; I would rather not have spent the night in custody than get to a rock show at a cool little local bar. Nope. Glad I kept my tongue in line.
In accordance with procedure, he has to run all of our licenses, he says. Apologizing to Tim and BJ (I made a point to do so in front of the cop), we give up our IDs and he goes back to his squadster, where he proceeds to take a good fifteen solid minutes running our information. After five minutes or so, BJ starts to worry that the officer may be second guessing his computer: Robert Schwent, Jr is an upstanding citizen - a bit course at times, but law-abiding nonetheless. Robert Schwent, Sr is a convicted felon. Every time BJ has an encounter with authority, a case of mistaken identity occurs. Ten minutes later, the officer returns to my car and approaches the passenger side. Returning our IDs, he asks BJ for his Social Security number.
"Junior," BJ emphasizes after yielding said information. The officer recalls his bit of printed paperwork he brought back and concedes:
'Alright - I'll not give you a citation. Just stay within the lines and enjoy Champaign.'
'Yes sir, officer. Eat a male camel's dick.'
That last one I did say, just after we had gotten back on the highway. The cop passed us and turned around. Tim was almost convinced he had come back to hassle us again.
That night, my subconscious must have still been fuming about this whole thing because I had a very upsetting dream about - getting hassled by a pig on a power trip. For some reason, I'm milling around a strip mall. Again for reasons unbeknownst to me, I decide it's time to leave. As I'm slowly driving toward the exit, I hear my door being opening. Someone is trying to get in while the car is moving. I decelerate and curse quizzically, 'What the fuck?' It seems that Janet Pulido, former co-worker at Jimmy John's, needs to get to K-Mart and I am the only one that can get her there. So, after she finally gets in, I take off for K-Mart (wherever it, or we, may be). As I am driving, the weather shifts drastically. Not only does it start raining, but the day goes to night in minutes. Also, Janet materializes into Derek - a natural progression. When we get to K-Mart, Derek runs inside to get cigarettes.
"They have the best brands here," he assures me. I wait outside. While I wait, a cop car pulls up. Wait - no. There was no car. That's why I was exceptionally offended by the large fellow in the black uniform barking orders at me. He demands to see my license and insurance. I demand to see his badge. Needless to say, this inalienable right did little to please him. He bitterly produces his badge, along with his night stick. Sticking his club into my gut, he gives me some bull-shit story about my driving on the way here and tells me he's going to bust me, or something. I assure him that the only problems with my driving are mechanical. To clarify this, the pig demands my keys so that his newly arrived lackey can test-drive my car. I am justifiably hesitant at first, but acquiesce for fear of getting beaten. The toady little shit proceeds to peal around the parking lot in the pouring rain.
After nearly missing all sorts of cars, he scrapes the front end against a parking barrier while returning my car to its initial parking space. He gives the key to the cop, and the cop gives the keys to me, saying, "Alright, there doesn't seem to be any sort of mechanical damage to the vehicle besides a few scrapes at the front end. But those were there before hand, so I'll just let you off with a warning." With a smile, the pig and his side-kick exit stage left into the night.
Derek eventually exits with his cigarettes, along with a few pairs of pants and numerous boxes of bullets in varying calibers. He wants to know what's wrong, but I'm so angry about the whole thing I can only reply, "Fucking cigarettes."
I was so upset that I actually woke up in a foul mood. Goddammit, I hate the fucking police.
- Later -
Shit seem to be hitting the fan all over the place. The economy: if you can afford a private financier, don't whine about the economy. Shut the fuck up and start living and spending reasonably. Fuck Dr. Phil. Fuck Toaster Strudel, or however you spell it. Dr. Phil is contributing to my satanic theory of television. Keep it up Philbert - these days, Satan needs as many friends as he can get. Speaking of Satan, I'm seeing a commercial for a pharmaceutical pill called Chantix. It's a 'quit smoking' pill. Some of the side effects include nausea - pretty standard, really. Oh, and another one: suicidal tendencies.
Speaking of suicidal thought, I love Ice T. He is too cool, and I say that without sarcasm or irony.
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