An Award-Winning Disclaimer

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"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

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Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Hypocrites Are a Gift From God

On Sunday morning over breakfast, I made it a point to thank my wife for watching shows like "COPS" and "The First 48" with me, and I mentioned that I was grateful that she didn't watch them grudgingly either, that she actually enjoyed them.

"Sure, buddy," she said to me, taking a vivacious bite out of her home-made egg & cheese bagel sandwich, "the thing I just don't like about cops is, like, they're really just out there all the time trying to catch people doing the wrong thing."

I popped a piece of turkey bacon into my never-shutting trap.

"Fuckin' aye right," I said, crunching happily.

At my old ambulance company, they called me a narc, and I relished in the moniker. You bet your asses I'm a narc. Of course, I was a narc who stole routinely stole armfuls of nitrile gloves from E.R.s all over Philadelphia, stole bedsheets and blankets from coworkers ambulances and even pilfered a penlight from my own truck so my wife could use it on her practicum. While I would have been petrified if someone had caught me doing the wrong thing, I love catching other people doing the wrong thing. I love holding them accountable for their inappropriate actions. And I love, love, love, love, hearty kissy poo love seeing people get into trouble.

"So, is that why you wanted to become a cop?" my wife asked me one day long ago, "to catch people doing the wrong thing?"


A prime example fell into my lap on Sunday afternoon. We were filling up my wife's car at the gas station when a gold Taurus wagon pulled up to the pump next to us. Some ugly hagitha was filling up the Taurus while the three children in the backseat played impishly around with each other. They were between the ages of seven and eleven and they were jumping around all over the place like Mexican fucking jumping beans.

"How much do you want to bet they don't buckle in when she leaves?" my wife asked me, glaring at the car's occupants. One of the little kids glared back.

"Well, I don't know," I said, trying on optimism to see if it fit, "they are stopped at a gas station.

The hagitha got into the driver's seat and, without a word, put the car into gear and drove away, the jumping beans still at it. As the Taurus wagon passed us, I caught sight of its bumper-sticker.

"Children Are a Gift from God."

I looked over at my wife for the punchline. She did not disappoint.

"I guess they're such a great gift that she's trying to give them back."

I have to think that the joy of being a cop isn't just in taking illegal guns off the streets, or shitheads who bust their wives in the mouth for not having the potroast done on time-- I have to think that some of the satisfaction and pleasure of that job is derived from pulling up behind a fucking hypocritical biatchburger like that, dragging her by her hair to the back of her vehicle and pushing her face right into that bumper-sticker, breaking her nose against the car's sheet-metal in the process. Of course, you can't behave like that, unless you're a rogue cop, which is really no cop at all, but you can certainly pull her over, issue her a citation and, if you're feeling really ballsy, point out the contradiction.

It would have been a wonderful career-- hypocrites and all.


  1. Oh man, I would have LOVED to be a cop!

    I love the rules. I'm obsessed with the rules. So when someone breaks them I get all like "U BROK TEH ROOLZ!" because I'm a lolcat when I'm angry and then they go to the naughty corner and think about what they've done for a few years/life.

    But alas, with my brain chemistry, it was not meant to be.

  2. sometimes i do the wrong thing, but i try really hard to look like i'm doing the right thing so that the sneaky coppers won't look for me. it has always worked, except for speeding.

    i don't mind getting pulled over for speeding if the cop is cute, though, and lately, they have been.

    but how do you ask a guy out while trying to convince him to write you a warning instead of a ticket? how do you ask a guy out, period? how do you get a guy to ask you out when he's packing a taser and a 9mm?

    btw? service weapons? make me weak in the knees...

  3. I've always thought it would be nice if, in addition to distributing tickets and citations and taser blows, cops also gave out prizes to people who do the right thing. "Look at that pedestrian who waited for the Walk sign before crossing the street," they'd say. "Let's give her a coupon for a free donut."

    I hypothesize it would be effective.

  4. Colleen-- this reminds me of the ill-fated happy-go-lucky write-up initiative at my old middle school. Little pink slips of paper that read:

    "YOU'VE BEEN CAUGHT... doing something good!"


  5. I love your award-winning blog disclaimer on the top of your page.

    And I love your wife. She seems quite the awesome. :)

  6. Colleen, I have often wondered where the incentives are for doing the right thing! Why should I bother, really? I love your idea, though I don't think we should be as patronizing as Mr. Apron's example. Maybe the coupon should read, "Good job, citizen; you really had a handle on that crosswalk. Here's a free carwash."

    Or, on our street, where 13 people know how to park, 2 pull in as if they're driving yachts needing 42 feet of clearance on either size, and 1 asshole who is always facing the wrong way. The responsible 13 of us should get priority with the parking spots, don'tcha think?

  7. I love Colleen's idea! It's great!

    And I love how my disclaimer got a load of space up top - I feel special.

    I'd like to be a 'cop' (garda over here - the plural is gardai) but you have to pass an Irish test and nothing - NOTHING - could compel me to take up Irish again (it's compulsory in school).

    Sad. The world is minus one passionate midget garda due to an out-of-date language barrier. And I'm so nifty with handcuffs and everything...!


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