F*** the police (actually, f*** me)

You know how everything can be going well, life is swimming along, you’re happy and cool and chillin’ and planning and then—lights.

You’re pulled over by the cops.

That’s what happened to me a few minutes ago. I was ticketed for going 49 in a 30. Even worse, I was pulled over in, literally, the exact same spot a month ago. That time, the officer let me off with a seatbelt violation—no points. This time, I wasn’t so lucky.

I know … I know—how does one get two tickets for the same violation in the same spot? I’m not sure. All I can say if I’ve been driving this stinkin’ road for almost a decade, without ever getting pulled over. It’s long and straight, and while the speed limit is 30, I whispers out, “Drive me 50 … I can handle it.”

I’ve had tickets before, and 99% of the time the officer is pleasant and accomodating. Today, the guy was anything but. He was gruff and ordery, and as he wrote up my ticket I smelled cigarette smoke. I peered at my rearview window and saw him writing the ticket while taking a puff. When he returned, I couldn’t fully help myself. As he walked away from the car, I said, “Police officers are allowed to smoke?”

He said, “Yeah.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s surprising.”

He wasn’t pleased. “What does that have to do with you speeding?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just curious.”

Admittedly, my comments were dumb. I was just irked.

And I still am.