Hands Off

I understand that you're appreciative of my efforts on your behalf. But after I've taken about the third giant step backward to get you to stop putting your hand on my arm, you really ought to get a hint. Between my job and Mrs. Cynical, I have a pretty good thing going. And even if I didn't think you were physically and psychologically abhorrent, I wouldn't take the chance of blowing it. Next time you're feeling that overheated, call the fire department and ask them to hose you off.

Nope, Not Going There

Dispatch: "Officer Cynical, check on a group of suspicious black males walking down the street in the vicinity of 3rd and Elm."

Officer Cynical: "What are they doing that's suspicious?"

Dispatch: "They're just walking down the street and the caller feels that's suspicious."

Officer Cynical: "10-8."

Some Days...

... THIS plays in my head all day long.

Today:

1 suicidal female
1 suicidal male
1 drunk male complaining about the quality of a pizza
1 shooting
0 lunch

My Security Camera

High Drama

I've come to the conclusion that about 80% of the population lives for nothing but drama. This usually manifests itself as conflict (with family, spouses, exes, neighbors, business owners, etc.) or hysteria - often both. These people are simply not happy, I've come to realize, unless they're having a beef with someone over something. The bigger the conflict, the better. And what better way to heighten conflict than to get the cops involved. Toss in some alcohol and/or drugs - even better.

Here's a real scenario from the other day:

He and she lived together for a year and broke up a month ago. They have at least one kid together. I don't know where he lives, but she lives in a shithole apartment with four kids and no job. She does have the prerequisite tats, cigarettes, and booze in abundance at home, however.

His mom hates her, and is constantly calling/texting/Facebooking inflammatory crap to her, and goading him into also hassling her in various ways.

As an aside, let me say that if Facebook were a building, I would wish to see it burnt to the ground for all the bullshit it drags cops into. I wouldn't Facebook if my life depended on it. But I digress....

This trio gets into its latest bullshit drama, and he calls the cops. He says she's "hysterical" and "has PTSD", and he's worried about the kids. He wants us to check on them. OK.

I go see her, and she's as calm and rational as she can be, given the circumstances. The kids are miraculously clean and well-fed, albeit the crappy apartment. She says his mom won't leave her alone since she broke up with him, and mom is getting him all worked up on a regular basis, and then he calls and they argue and then he calls the cops.

I get the hell out of there.

When I call him, he's highly indignant that I don't see things his (and his mommy's) way. He regurgitates another series of accusations about her that are both irrelevant to the current situation and impossible for me to follow up on. Later, he calls my supervisor and bitches that I didn't do enough to satisfy him. My boss tells him that it's not the cops' job to side with him in his petty domestic sob story.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you how often people try to bamboozle the cops into getting involved in their petty, pathetic, juvenile beefs with other people - usually an ex, and especially if the ex has their kid(s). They accuse one another of all kinds of crimes as a way of digging at each other, and we're expected to sort it out.

I have some unfortunate news for you: I'm not here to provide you with tissues because your girlfriend broke up with you and you're upset about it and you think the best way to get her back is to harass the shit out of her until she sees the light. Grow up. Be a man. Get on with your life.

Asswipe

I went to two - count 'em - two physical domestics today. In both cases, we were absolutely sure that the male half had knocked around the female half, but neither female would tell us that, and neither female had any visible injuries. In short, we couldn't do a damned thing other than take a report.

The first guy was half in the bag, and kept glaring at the female. Even after we separated them, all she would say was that "something happened" - nothing more. When I pressed her for details, she just stood mute, shaking her head.

The second guy was this big ape with a bunch of military crap hanging on the wall and tattoos all over his arms and stuff. He just sat there, watching TV, while we tried to sort it out, with his jaws all clenched like maybe we'd be intimidated or something. Fail.

The funny thing is, as big and tough as these guys are, they never want to take on a cop. That's because they're basically great big pussies - total losers who are taking their frustrations for being such total losers out on someone who can't fight back. Try me once, junior. I'll tune you up like a cheap rental car. Asswipe.

Strunk White, Idiot Weatherman: Ageism

"Old timers will remember that the last storm this severe was back in 1993."

Old timers? What are you, 12?

Too Much Television

I'm sorry someone bumped into your car in the mall parking lot over a week ago. I do appreciate you taking the initiative to call mall security and ask them about video that might show the  responsible vehicle. It's too bad things happened too far away for the camera to pick up anything other than the fact that it was a white SUV that hit your car. But, NO, I can't take the video to our lab and have it enhanced so that the license plate number can be discerned. Please either switch channels to something other than CSI, or just turn your TV off altogether.

Nocturnal Intruders

Officer Cynical: "What seems to be the problem?"

Mrs. Capgras: "When I went to bed last night, all my appliances were plugged in."

Officer Cynical: "OK, but it looks like pretty much everything is still plugged in."

Mrs. Capgras: "I know, but when I woke up they were all plugged into different outlets."

Snow Removal

Here is the protocol for snow removal in my city:

Phase 1 - When a snow storm is anticipated, do nothing to prepare, even though road pretreatments are readily available and on-hand. Blame the cold temperatures for refusal to employ these treatments, but make no attempt to explain what the hell that's supposed to mean.

Phase 2 - Once the snow starts, do nothing, regardless of how impassable roads become.

Phase 3 - Once the snow stops, wait until it is compacted into a rock-hard layer before doing anything except spreading some sand and salt at a few intersections where accidents have already occurred.

Phase 4 - Scrape the compacted snow down to NHL-quality hockey rink ice. Ensure all previously placed sand and salt is also plowed away, and don't replace it. The police will call with the locations to replace sand and salt where more accidents occur.

Phase 5 - Move plows to residential streets, where homeowners have spent hours clearing their driveways. Plow up the compacted snow and hockey rink ice into bergs and floes the size of refrigerators. Ensure the bulk of these ice boulders are piled at the foot of peoples driveways, especially if the driveways themselves have been cleared by the homeowners, and in front of homeowners' mailboxes.

Phase 6 - Advise the US Postal Service of all the addresses where the mountains of snow and ice have been piled up in front of the mailboxes, so that the USPS can now refuse to deliver mail where the boxes are inaccessible.

Phase 7 - Make self-congratulatory announcements on the local news about how you're "on top of" the bad road conditions.

How To Get Busted In 4 Easy Steps

1. Overstay check-out time at Stickysheets Motel.

2. When staff comes to your room and asks you nicely to check out, slam the door in their faces.

3. When the police show up to throw you out, try to hide your bag of dope in your pocket....with a cop standing right-fucking-there watching you.

4. When asked by the cop what's in the bag, hand it over and make a smart-ass comment.

Enjoy the ride.

Next!

Does this happen to everybody everywhere or just to me?

You're in a long line waiting to pay at the grocery store or whatever, and they open another register. The clerk calls out, "I can help somebody down here." Great.

And then the last freakin' person in your line runs over and is now the first person in the new line!  What - the - hell? If I'm next in line to get to the register in my line, that means I've been waiting the longest and should be the first person in the new line, right? But noooooooooooo! It's always that last asswipe in my line, who's been waiting the least amount of time, who runs over and is now at the head of the new line like the king of the whole goddam world.

I feel this is total bullshit and someone needs to do something about it.

You Big Baby

You're 30 years old. You show up in court, not with your attorney, but with your dad, and you ask the judge if he can sit by you at the defense table.

 Following my testimony, you have no questions for me - you can't even look at me - but you ask the judge if you can make a statement. The judge allows it, and you spend five minutes telling him that you had a head injury years ago, and you just didn't realize that what you did was a crime. You also say it was because of your old head injury that you missed your original court date (and so I had to piss away half my off day sitting in court for nothing). And you go on to say that you're financially strapped, and you can't afford a fine.

Too bad you were found guilty. I actually was smiling as I left the courthouse. Then I went home and you didn't.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

Yes, I'm sure it's a mistake that my computer, which is directly connected to the state system, says that your driver's license is suspended. Never mind that you haven't had liability insurance since the Mesozoic Era, and you've had multiple warrant arrests for it just in the last year. Yes, I'm sure the judge will see it's a mistake and let you off. Yes, we're all as stupid as you are.

AYFKM?

I swear I'm not making this up:

Two cops get sent to a "disturbance" this morning. Sadly, I was one of the two.

The apartment is occupied by Male 1 and Female 1, who are married, and Male 2. Due to the inevitable "language barrier", it's not clear how this arrangement came to be.

Male 1 is screaming his head off at Male 2. It turns out, this is because Male 2 is keeping his recumbent exercise bike in his own bathroom. Male 2 says his bedroom is too small (I look in there and he's right, because he has a California King stuffed into an 8' x 10' space), and he doesn't want to keep it in the living room (which is almost completely devoid of any furniture), because "it doesn't belong there".

My partner and I refrain from opening fire on all three, and ask Male 1 why he cares if Male 2 keeps his recumbent bike in his own bathroom. Male 1 says it's because his wife, Female 1, is pregnant and she throws up in their bathroom, so he has to use Male 2's bathroom. We helpfully point out that once Female 1 is done throwing up, they can flush it down the shitter and be done with it. Male 1 says that's not acceptable because of the smell. He has to use Male 2's bathroom because his bathroom stinks too much from her vomit.

I finally snap and tell them this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of. Three grown adults arguing over a recumbent bike in a bathroom. I tell them to either work it out, or somebody can move. If they need a referee, call the building manager or an interior decorator. This is the furthest thing on the planet from police work, and I'm leaving.

Male 1 storms off to talk to the manager. As I burn out of the parking lot in my squad car, I see Male 1 returning from the office, building manager in tow. Poor fucker.

Pills, Pills, Pills

Why is it that so many people I deal with are on prescribed medications for back problems? I hauled some suicidal dude to the ER today - young, not overweight, appeared to be in OK physical condition - but when asked by the nurse what meds he's on, sure enough, he starts reciting a list of pain meds for his back.

My most recent DUI was a walking disaster area, whose life consists of collecting a welfare check, consuming alcohol, and driving around until the cops catch him. I get him to jail and they ask him if he's on any prescribed medications. Yup, he takes "Flexeroll" for his chronic back pain. I bet it works wonders at a BAC of .25.

The guys that really impress me are the ones who have a whole laundry list of meds - all the -codones and -azepams and -ines - and they know both the trade names and the generic names, the dosages they're manufactured in, and the frequencies with which they're all supposed to be taken. It's like they're reading them off a chart. Really very impressive.

So, what medication could I take for the chronic pain in my ass all these people are giving me?

Strunk white, Idiot Weatherman: Physics-ally Challenged

"Right now the ground is frozen, so any water will just run off rather than penetrate the soil. We'll have to wait until the ground unfreezes for some of that moisture to be absorbed."

Or, we could just wait for it to thaw.

"We'll have to wait until we have temperatures above freezing for snow to begin melting."

No kidding?

Costco

Mrs. Cynical dragged me to Costco the other day. I had never been in one before. I will admit, the prices there are great as long as you're willing to buy so much of something that you can't possibly eat it all before it goes bad.

I was immediately reminded of the episode of Family Guy where they do a cutaway of Peter as Jackee Harry's personal shopper (I had to look her up, too - I had no idea who she was). Peter is looking at the shopping list, and is baffled by the units of measure for various items: a pallet of chocolate-covered pretzels, a drum of grape jam, a desk of Cheez-Its, a hammock of cake.

So, I started making up units of measure for the stuff I was looking at: a safe of cereal, an ammo dump of bread, a console of eggs, a futon of lunchmeat, a fairway of toothpicks, a skyscraper of milk, a furnace of doughnuts, a flight deck of frozen pizzas, a tackle box of  mints, an engine block of cheese.

The most insulting part of the trip was having to show our receipt to some guy at the door on the way out. I mean, who does that? We went through the check-out, paid for our junk, got a receipt for it, and now we have to present that receipt to somebody in order to leave the store? Like an exit tax from some third-world country? I was really curious about what would happen if I just kept walking and ignored the guy, but my job probably depends on not getting into a shouting/wrestling match with the receipt man at Costco.

Conservation

Officer Cynical: "This is a citation for following too close."

Mr. Newton I: "Now, wait a minute! I was not following too close."

Officer Cynical: "Well, you ran into the back of that bus when he slowed down for the stopped traffic in front of him. I call that following too close."

Mr. Newton I: "Hey, how was I supposed to know he could stop on a dime and I couldn't?"

Officer Cynical: "I doubt the 15-ton bus stopped on a dime."

Mr. Newton I: "And my automatic brakes didn't work."

Officer Cynical: "You mean your ABS?"

Mr. Newton I: "Whatever. My car is totaled and the bus hardly got a scratch. I shouldn't be the one getting a ticket."

Officer Cynical: "I'm not citing the bus driver because you ran into the back of him."

Mr. Newton I: Well, you should.

Move Along. There's Nothing To See Here.

I'm sitting on a residential street, running radar because we'd had a number of complaints from residents about speeders in the area. This is an area with parks and playgrounds and lots of school buses and pedestrians all over the place, so I'm happy to write speeding tickets there.

A huge luxury 4-door car going the opposite direction from the way I'm facing stops in the middle of street and signals for me to put my window down. I can see the driver is of WWII vet age, so I figure he needs directions or has some question. He's apparently oblivious to the traffic piling up behind him.

I put my window down, and I swear this is what he says to me:

"What the hell are you doing sitting there doing nothing while I'm paying your salary?"

I resist the urge to tell him to get his ass moving before I write him a ticket for obstructing traffic. Instead, I politely explain what I'm doing and why. He says:

"Speeders? Yeah, there's a lot of those. I guess it's OK, then."

He drives off.

It's a Topsy-Turvy World

I got sent to investigate a tipped-over portable toilet today. Some guy who lives near where it was located called to report it. I'm not sure what he thought the police could do, but I wasn't getting within 10 feet of that thing. He came out to my car to tell me a group of "half white and half colored kids" had walked by the night before, and he was sure they did it because "that's what they do." Nice. Well, if you see them before I do, ask them to stand it back up. Otherwise, I'll let the portable toilet people take care of it.

Don't Come A'Knockin'

When I see your pickup truck parked, in the middle of the night, in a city park that closes at dusk, AND
music is blaring from your truck's CD player, AND
your truck is eerily rocking from side to side, AND
your shirt is unbuttoned and you're frantically pulling up your pants after I knock on the window, AND
your female companion is frantically trying to simultaneously pull up her panties and refasten her bra, THEN
no, I don't believe you when you tell me you were just talking. AND
I don't think your respective spouses would believe you, either.

Get Off

When it comes to driving onto the interstate in Cynicalville, there are two types of drivers who deserve public exposure and humiliation.

One type stays in the on-ramp lane until the very end, terrified to move left into the flow of traffic until it's absolutely necessary. By the time the on-ramp lane runs out, they've accelerated to about 30 miles per hour. Then, they they are forced move into the traffic flow (although I have seen a few that actually continue in the emergency lane), causing normal people to either dynamite their brakes or veer left to avoid slamming into the rear of the terrified driver. These people are clearly horrified at the idea of traveling above the speed of a Conestoga wagon. Why they are on the interstate in the first place is a mystery. Surface roads were made for these people, and they should be banished from any throughway with a speed limit higher than 25.

The second type has no problem accelerating up to speed. But then, they just barge left into traffic, assuming people will get out of their way. The word "merge" has no meaning to these idiots. They are oblivious to the fact that it is their duty to merge, and not the duty of everyone else to get out of their way. I've actually had people honk their horn in indignation because I was traveling in the far right lane, and refused to change lanes to allow them to move into traffic at the exact spot they've deemed belongs to them. These types need to be struck across the brow with a "MERGE" sign until they sign a document acknowledging they are not the only people on the road.