Forgive her, Lord, for she knows not what she does…
MC: Do you know why I stopped you?
Allegedly Late Lady (although I didn’t know it at the time): No (exasperatingly stated by the way).
MC: Do you know what the speed limit is on 123 Ave.?
MC (Never having heard of any such limit in Town…or anywhere, for that matter): It’s 30. Do you know how fast you were going?
MC: 46. Little too fast, but it’s not the end of the world. Do you have your license, registration, and insurance with you?
ALL hands me her info and I skip (not really, but much more of a vivid image, no?) back to the bike. As I am writing the ticket, she decided to pop the back hatch of her vehicle and get out of the car. I politely (honest!) asked her to get back in her vehicle.
ALL: You’re making me late and I need to get something out of my car!
MC: Ma’am, you’re decision to speed is what is making you late, not me. I don’t want any brouhaha (Hell, yeah, I said it), so please just get back in the car and I’ll be with you in a minute.
ALL: I can’t believe you’re making me late.
MC: Just a thought, here, but maybe you’re the one responsible for that.
**Pay Attention Here, Folks!!** Don’t EVER get out of your car (barring some natural disaster or Al-Qaeda attack) for ANY reason (refer to aforementioned imminent cataclysmic doom). It’s a fantastic way to get shot. I don’t give a shit if you think any of the following:
“Oh, it’s just me.” — I don’t know who the fuck you are.
“Oh, it’s just the Town, nothing ever happens here.” — Famous last words…oh, and shit happens here more than your little sheltered Mommy’s club and/or Neighborhood Watch knows. Ignorance is bliss.
“I’m not going to do anything wrong.” — You’ll excuse me if my mind reading abilities are a little fucked up…we haven’t made the switch to the digital signal yet at the PD and things have been running particularly shoddy of late…check back in after 6/12.
“What could I possibly do?” — I have no bloody clue. That’s kinda the fucking point, Pal.
**We now return you to our regularly scheduled traffic stop**
ALL returned, albeit with a huff and an attitude, to her vehicle. I walked back to the car.
MC: Okay, Ma’am, I need you to sign the yellow highlighted portion at the bottom. (I went on to explain Traffic School and the usual rigmarole)
ALL (finished signing, but holding on to my cite book as she puts her registration away): Now you get to wait for me.
MC: Take your time, Ma’am, I’ve got all day.
ALL: So, now you’re going to be a smartass?
Wait a minute, there. Did you just make a smartass comment at me…and then I tell you it’s not a problem…and then you accuse me of being a smartass?!? WTF? Listen, sweetheart, you wanna see a smartass, I’m all for it. Unfortunately, I try to keep than inner monologue wrapped the fuck up or I’d find myself in hot water in a quick second…well that, and it makes for cool blog fodder. Here’s a suggestion…
How’s about you take your bullshit wannabe smartass attitude and shove it right up your (and this is where the beep noise comes in….what, you don’t see the blog as part of Must See TV?)
At any rate, the sheer hypocrisy of this friggin’ harpy was unreal. Mostly because I actually hadn’t been a smartass during the stop. I’m all about taking responsibility for my smartass-ness (-osity?) and having reined it in and still being accused was insulting. I can only imagine her pinhead (atop her rather rotund frame, mind you) would have literally painted the interior of her car with grey matter from the force of the explosion of her head had I actually unleashed the power of my Jedi-like smartass skill.
To quell your suppositions regarding the end of the stop. I believe I just sort of shook my head in disbelief at the audacity of this smartass neophyte and chuckled to myself as I walked back to the bike, cite book in hand, with visions of how to frame the post floating about in my head.