Speaking purely hypothetically, it seems like it would be impossible to discern a car’s traveling speed when you are sitting in the dark shadows of a un-moonlit night while consuming a twice-glazed donut and texting some third rate hooker, while also attempting to manage an outdated radar gun with your now-glazed hand and through a pair of spectacles thicker than a pre-The View Rosie O’Donnell. But apparently that’s wrong.
Somewhere on highway 101, right about the time the smell of old onions and rotting broccoli fade into something vaguely oceanic, there is a construction area – two miles long and darker than Mother Theresa’s nether regions – denoted by a single diamond-shaped road sign whose orange color blends perfectly with the clay colored roadside and practically begs one to continue on at regular speed.
Maximum Speed 55, or so Officer I’m-one-éclair-from-affecting-the-tides says, and then begins penciling in my driver’s license information while grinning his jack-o-lantern smile and staring into my window so I can witness the means in which old donut dough can attack a man’s six remaining teeth.
It was late. I was cold and tired. I chose to invoke my first amendment – you know the no abridging speech thing, the one that presumably keeps you out of trouble with the self-evident and inalienable BS stuff – and the whole declarational “when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security” thing.
Officer It’s 11:00 p.m. and I was doing 65, which, by the way, is the legal freeway speed limit around these parts. Plus, there doesn’t appear to be anyone working out here at this ungodly hour, except for officers shouldering large chips, and of course this not exactly Tesla-esque antique radar thing, which let’s be honest, looks more like Batman toy than something which will hold up in court, along with the Winchell’s woman who sold you that dirty dozen you seem to be enjoying a little too fervently on this here night shift.
Note also, the hood of a highway patrol car is excessively hot when your hands are forcibly pressed into them – with a knee in your spine – for being a smartass.
But see, I pay your salary to protect people like me, not to sit around eating the most cliché meal a cop could consume, and then to cuff me like you are currently doing, and intentionally banging my head on the car door while acting like you don’t friggin’ mean it, you insolent *&^%.
Anyway, at least I got a date out of it – it’s June 16th, in the Santa Barbara courthouse, room 3. Hit me up if you want to make it a threesome.