This morning a fucking midget pulled me over at 8am while I was on my way to work. He gave me a ticket for a broken tail light.
Cop: License and registration please.
Me: *stunned silence from behind sunglasses*
Cop: Have you sent in your check for your new registration?
Me: (In my head, "Of course I did you fucking asshole. Do I look like a homeless person to you? I see you're judging my Daewoo and all the dents and scratches it has but perhaps you should judge me by my fucking business outfit which I'm wearing because I HAVE A JOB!!!!”) Yep.
Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: (In my head: "Because your dick is small and you have a thing for little boys despite the fact that you're married and giving tickets to people while they're on their way to work makes you feel like you've gained some semblance of control over your tiny life?") No.
Cop: Your brake light is out.
Me: (In my head: "YOUR brake light is out.") What's a brake light?
Cop: Stay here.
Me: (In my head: "Obviously. Do you think I'm going to make the great escape by speeding off in the bumper to bumper traffic you fucking minion?")
Eventually he came back and gave me a ticket. Naturally, I immediately burst into tears and then pouted until he was done talking. Soooooooopper white girl of me but I was caught off guard and very frustrated.
Turns out I only pull out the big guns when I'm totally inebriated. When I was 18 yrs old, most of my outfits were accessorized with a tie-dyed cast. The cast was the result of a bottle of Jagermeister. The bottle of Jagermeister was the result of my friend Ryan dying. Ryan's death was the result of heroin. Needless to say, it had been a tough year and I was long overdue for a break that did not fall into the leg category. One night, I was casually driving home from a night of debauchery when I noticed cherries in my rear view mirror. I immediately pulled over so that the dutiful police officers could catch the outlaw they were after. Turns out the outlaw was me. I was a mere block away from my parents' house and eager to get home, yet I was inconveniently deterred. These cops were then faced with a drunken teenager with a broken leg and a trunk full of beer. A transcript:
Cop: Have you been drinking.
Me: Of course not, that's illegal.
Cop: Do you mind stepping out of the car?
Me: No problem.
Cop: What happened to your leg?
Me: I'm bad at walking.
Cop: Do you have any alcohol in your car?
Cop: Stay here.
(I always regretted not running at this point since I wasn't in handcuffs yet but I probably wouldn't have gotten very far seeing as I was wasted and one-legged.)
Cop: You have beer in your trunk.
(I also had a hit of acid in my purse so I sort of felt like I was getting off easy so far.)
Cop: Put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest.
Me: Whoa, whoa. Easy buddy. How about you just give me a warning? My house is literally a block away.
Cop: My wife and kids are driving on these roads.
Me: I assure you your wife and kids are not driving on this block right now. We'd be able to see them.
Cop: Hands behind your back.
When we got to the police station, I was allowed one phone call. I had just turned 18 and was so excited that I didn't have to call my parents. Instead I called my drug dealer friend, Marc. The good news was that Marc was awake. The bad news is that he too had been arrested by these particular cops. My brilliance came when they asked me to take the breathalyzer. When you hang out with drug addicts and alcoholics, you get a lot of awesome advice. My friend Zac once told me never to take the breathalyzer because then they'll never have proof that you were drunk. I fucking nailed that shit. Ultimately, they could never charge me with a D.U.I. If you don't take the breathalyzer, you immediately lose your license for 6 months which was fine with me because that way I could guarantee that I wouldn't drive drunk. Problem. Solved.
When Marc dropped me off at my house that night, I slurked into bed only to be awoken mere hours later by Mimi knocking on my bedroom door.
Mimi: Alison, where's your car? (When she says "your" car she means "her" car because I never actually owned my own car until I moved to L.A.)
Me: I don't know but I think I got a D.U.I.
Mimi was not impressed. This is likely because we had had a very similar conversation a few weeks earlier.
Mimi: Alison, where's your car?
Me: I don't know but I think my leg is broken.
I think I'm being punished for the D.U.I. I maneuvered my way out of 13 years ago. I have been getting a full-on dick up the ass from the L.A.P.D. ever since I moved to Los Angeles. I have a flare for the dramatic and every time I'm faced with anything I find to be unjust, I can't help but wonder...why me? What did I do to deserve this? I work hard. I pay my taxes. I send barrels of water to Ecuador. Why do I keep getting my ass handed to me by Los Angeles' finest? Perhaps it's because I spent my adolescence bitch slapping police officers. I once got pulled over by a Chicago cop who merely stopped me to tell me he'd literally never seen a worse driver in his life. I spent a lot of time drunkenly bumper carring side-mirrors off every car parked on the side streets. I often called the Chicago police in the mornings because I thought my car was stolen, only to find out I had gotten wasted and left it somewhere (at least I wasn't driving drunk!). At the end of the day, I'd say I've had this coming for a while. But your time is almost up L.A.P.D. I'd say my karma circle has just about been completed. I've got my eye on you L.A.P.D. Watch your back. If you cross me again, we both know what will happen...I will silently cry behind sunglasses and then move on with my day. Ugh...I should start drinking again. I was way more macho.