Last week, sort of. a stray dog, bloody nips and funny signs…

Well, since the wee gray organ inside my skull is unwilling to spew forth anything new or creative, I’m just going to rehash the week that was.

That just was?

Is it rehash my last week?

Whatever, I’m going to tell you about some of the seven prior days of my life, is what I’m saying.

My work week got off to a rousing good start with a call for a vicious dog near some kids playing outside. The caller was afraid that the dog was going to attack the kids.

I don’t know who made the call, but when I arrived, three little girls flagged me down and pointed out the dog to me. They didn’t really have to do that since she was about a 70 pound dog and she was standing right behind them wagging her tail and looking all confused about what was going on.

I noticed that the dog was a bit wet, and when I asked the kids what that was all about, they said that they’d just got done bathing her with a hose.

Confused, I asked, “You mean you sprayed her with a hose and soaped her down, or you sprayed her with a hose to scare her away?”

Also now confused, the girls asked, “Geez, don’t you know what bathing means, officer?”

“Touche brats!” I thought, but they were sweet girls anyway.

“Somebody called and said that the dog was vicious,” I told them.

When the girls asked me what vicious meant, I found myself laughing inside my head as I mentally wrote a Dora cartoon that included a vicious bear running from the wavy forest towards the magical lake to rip her and Boots’s throats out before eating them and then wiping its ass with the map and sparing future generations anymore of that nonsense.

No, that’s not appropriate. Still, Dora and Peppa Pig could do a better job of teaching kids about some negative things in life along with their alleged positive messages.

Instead of being too graphic, I simply said that it meant that the person who called was afraid that the dog was going to bite or scratch them.

The girls had a pretty good laugh at that, and to prove the point, they all three gave the dog a giant hug as she looked at me like, “What the fuck is going on, officer? Do you have any treats in your pockets?”

That’s what I think her face said anyway, but no, I didn’t have any treats.

The dog looked pretty good for a stray, so I decided to see if she’d get in the car so I could take her to Stray Rescue. It’s not that I was being nice to the dog so much as it was a good way to kill an hour without having to answer more radio assignments.

As though she were reading my thoughts, the dog raced to the car and nearly knocked me over as I reached for the handle. She’d clearly been in a car before and enjoyed herself.

We had a fine time conversing and looking for bad guys (insert cat burglar joke here) on our way to the shelter.

Vicious and I patrolled the mean streets together, briefly.

Vicious and I patrolled the mean streets together, briefly.

I was briefly sad at having to leave my new friend with the folks at animal control, since the no kill shelter joint wouldn’t take her in for me. What’s up with that? The fine folks at animal control assured me that they’re a kinder, gentler place and promised me that they’d call me to come get her, if they couldn’t find her a home. They seemed pretty confident that they could, and I hope they do. I have my hands full with a geriatric lab with no sphincter control and whatever this one’s problem is.

Staring at nothing...

Staring at nothing…

She’s taken to sitting awkwardly on the stairs and staring at nothing out the windows. She only takes a break to look over at me every now and then with an expression that asks, “Why aren’t you making whatever it is I want to have happen happen?!”

Read my mind, DON!!

Read my mind, DON!!

I don’t know, dog!

Well damn, day one really took up more time and energy than I thought, so there’s no time to tell you about the rest of my week. So, instead of boring you with things like that pregnant woman drinking cleaning solution (she lived but I worry about her baby being raised by this person) or more shootings or my epic night of Bud Light Lime consumption, I’ll end this with my yesterday.

Yesterday, the wife woke me at seven something in the morning to go cheer for our good friend and neighbor, Margo, as she was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. Normally, this is no problem, but the night before was a 40th birthday party for a college buddy and I may or may not have put down 20 bottles of beer and three really good bloody mary’s with dinner. Either way, getting up was unpleasant, to say the least.

Alas, we made it to the course, and it turns out that the only thing almost as bad as running in a race is watching other people do it.

It is made more entertaining by holding funny signs though. Margo’s husband had some ready for the DOAT clan to help inspire the runners.

Ace and Cool were all sorts of into it.

Motivating runners all classy like...

Motivating runners all classy like…

Gman had his moments, but not so much.

Distracted by donuts...

Distracted by donuts…

The wife promised him a donut on the way to the run, but we ran out of time. That explanation wasn’t sufficient, however, so he spent the next seven hours talking about getting his donut until we finally found a gas station donut to shut him up.

So the thing with marathons is that apparently, men do bleed out their nipples, which is quite disgusting. Here’s a pro tip, runners – when your nipples start to bleed, that is your body telling you, “STOP! LOOK AT YOUR NIPPLES!! THEY’RE BLEEDING!!!”

The nipple bleeders did not stop though, as I saw several men with bloodied nipple shirts trudging on against the protestations of their bodies. I am quite confident that I would listen to my nipples, were I ever interested in running again.

So anywho, this went on and on and we got nowhere, so I’ll wrap it up.

I don’t know what Margo’s official time was, but it was something ridiculous like under 3:40 and she was still down on herself. That’s a perfectionist for ya. I would be proud to just finish a marathon, let alone run it that fast.

We had lunch and did some things after the race, and there were still people being announced as they crossed the finish line, six plus hours later. Most were walking, of course.

I’m sorry, but if you walk any significant portion of the marathon and it takes you more than five hours, then you didn’t run a marathon. You simply traveled 26.2 miles on foot.

I did the same thing myself yesterday walking up and down Main Street while the wife shopped. Of course, I did it alternating a five and a three year old on my shoulders, but no medal for me after the end of my long day.

Hahaha, well my brain went flaccid just now so there’s no funny ending to this just an abrupt little se

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 43 Comments

Lick’n lunch with the boys…

I walked into the kitchen the other day and found myself standing behind Cool and Gman as they were seated at the island waiting to be fed lunch. They insist on being fed every single day, often multiple times during the same day.

All this child feeding can be very annoying when all one wants to do is sit his fat ass on the couch with his Doritos and watch the ball game, but I’ll digress.

They didn’t hear me walk into the kitchen because I’m quite ninja like that, and also because when they’re together, their noise level is always somewhere equivalent to that of a jet plane repeatedly taking off and immediately crashing into a mountain and exploding upon impact. I believe the decibel number is somewhere around 150, for those of you who need such numerical data to visualize the insanity.

The boys were giggling and having a good time together.

As I snuck behind them, I was pleased to see that they had already gotten what they wanted to be fed from the pantry and refrigerator. That sort of initiative on their part is rare, so it’s to be applauded when they do it.

Before I was able to praise them for their ambitious venture into the pantry and fridge to help get lunch started though, I saw what was so funny to the both of them.

They were licking all the sliced lunch meats and putting them back into the packages.

What?

Right?

You heard me.

THEY WERE LICKING THE GODDAM LUNCHMEAT AND PUTTING IT BACK INTO THE PACKAGES!!!!!

It was apparently the funniest thing in the world to them, until I asked, “What the fuck are you two doing??!!” in the best daddy’s not psychotically enraged, but he’s clearly pissed off tone that I could muster.

Gman continued to giggle while Cool, of course, put his face in his hands and became dejected at having been scolded.

I sighed, walked back into the adjoining room, and proceeded to pound my head on the desk five or six times before I came back and had lunch with my boys.

They enjoyed their licked on salami with mayo and cheese sandwiches while I opted for a lunch-meatless PB&J and a glass of milk.

I sent the boys out the door to terrorize the neighborhood so that I could consider whether or not I needed to try to make myself vomit in peace.

This isn’t the first time daddy has discovered one of the boys returning food to its packaging after it had found its way into a mouth.

A few weeks earlier I was enjoying my Salt and Vinegar flavored sunflower seeds when it occurred to me that some of the seeds lacked flavor and may or may not have seemed a little soggy. (I was going to say moist, but I hate that word. Moist…*shudders*)

Anyway, when I inquired as to whether or not anyone had touched daddy’s seeds, Ace finally looked away from whichever there’s no parent around and the teens are being dicks to each other show that she was watching to let me know that “yes daddy, Gman was sucking the flavor from your seeds earlier and then putting them back in the bag.”

She then smiled at me before turning indifferently back towards her television show.

“Hey honey?” I asked.

“Ace.”

“That fucking tv. I need to remember to cancel cable. These kids are rotting their brains,” I thought.

“ACE!!!!” Jesus Christ, she was sitting seven feet away from me.

“Yeah?”

“Why would you…wait, did you just say yeah?” I asked.

Ace sighs, clearly annoyed at having to pause her stupid show for ten seconds again.

“YES, Dad?”

“That’s sort of better. Why would you let me eat seeds that you know your brother has put into his mouth? Why would you do that to your daddy!??”

Ace shrugged her shoulders and smiled again. “He can’t eat those seeds, Daddy. They’re too hard for him to figure out. He just likes the flavor.”

She has a sweet smile and she’s a sweet kid, so I can’t really be mad at her, even though a small part of me wants to drop kick her ass into the next county for letting me eat sucked on seeds.

That’s just nasty. I’m not a person who enjoys drinking or eating after another person. I find it appalling, in fact.

I have gotten a tiny bit better about it since I’ve had kids. I’ll eat their leftovers when I’m mostly sure they haven’t touched it with their mouths, and I can share a water bottle with them, but there are some things that ain’t happening, and one of those things is me eating anything that has been entirely inside another person’s mouth, fruit of my loins or not.

As Ace returned to her semi-catatonic state to enjoy her show, I sat on the couch and pondered my life.

How many sandwiches have I eaten since these kids have been born that were made with slobbered on lunch meat?

Do they stick their fingers into the peanut butter? Oh God, I bet they lick the knife and put it back into the jar all the time!

Are they licking the salt from my hard pretzels and putting them back into the box? I’ve noticed a bunch of my pretzels haven’t been as salty recently.

Dear God!

My Doritos? Are they licking the dust from my Doritos too?

The thought of it all has me overwhelmed, so I’ve sworn to only eat food at home that I know for a fact is still untarnished. That would basically  be nothing, except for whatever I open from an untampered with package.

Failing that, all my meals will be eaten out, in a restaurant, where I can trust that FDA agents and minimum wage earning, salt of the earth human beings are doing their best to ensure that my food is served to me in a clean environment, completely free of child slobber, floaties or other cooties.

Posted in Family, Humor, Parenting, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 60 Comments

A shooting a mother and her baby…

The intersection of Vandeventer and St. Louis Avenue isn’t in my district.

I am not subject to calls that come out in that area, but my car had a tire that was running low on air.

I told the dispatcher that I was going to the police garage to have the tire filled and I put my mic into my bag. I was out of service now so I could relax for a little bit and enjoy the trip to the garage without having to worry about another call coming my way for a few minutes. I cranked up Billy Joel’s Piano Man and headed south on Vandeventer.

As is often the case with the best laid plans of a police officer, my relaxing drive was interrupted, almost immediately.

An officer in the adjacent district heard shots fired nearby. He was on the scene almost immediately.

A more veteran officer in my own district called out to the shooting as well.

I was nearby too, just trying to get some air in that tire of mine.

I could have gone around the whole scene to get to the garage, but I felt compelled to go to the shooting scene that wasn’t in my area and that was zero percent my responsibility. It may sound harsh, but shootings in North St. Louis are hardly rare. There would be plenty of other officers on the scene in no time, but I stayed my course on Vandeventer and ran right into the huge crowd of people gathering at the gas station where a woman and a man had just been shot.

I made my way through the crowd to the woman on the ground at the gas station.

She was young, maybe early twenties. I was hard to tell. The blood and mucus and other shit on her face made it hard to tell what she might look like on her best day.

She was unconcious and if she was breathing, it was too shallow for me to tell.

A complete stranger tended to her as she lay there dying.

“Sir, were you with her?” I asked.

“No. I was pumping gas and she was pumping gas. She got shot man”

He was talking to her.

“Keep that up, sir. Keep talking to her, the ambulance is almost here,” I said.

The crowd nearby was angry.

“Where’s the goddamn ambulance!?” A lady screamed. “Where’s the fucking ambulance?? We don’t need the fucking police, she need a ambulance!!”

“The ambulance is coming, ma’am. It’s on its way.” I assured this woman I sort of wanted to punch in the face.

I knelt down near the woman as she lay there dying.

Maybe she was already dead.

I thought she was.

“Keep talking to her sir, you’re doing great,” I told the stranger helping a young woman he didn’t know.

I still didn’t really know what had happened, so I asked the man tending to the dying woman what happened.

“She was pumping gas man. This is her car. Somebody came and shot her.”

It made sense now.

It’s hard to construct an incident in your mind when there are hundreds of people around yelling and screaming, but it started to make sense to me now.

Then I heard crying.

“What the fuck was that?” I thought to myself.

I stood up and looked into her car.

Kids.

Little kids.

Not even little kids, they were babies.

There were three, maybe four of them in the back seat of the car. I only remember three of them. One was asleep. The other two were awake, but not aware of what was happening.

They were so young and so tiny.

The ambulance showed up as I told a younger officer to get the kids from the car.

“Hand me that first one,” I said.

“Bring the other two over here so they don’t see their mom like that.” I’ve seen people in many states of alive during my fifteen plus years as an officer, and I was certain that this woman was at least walking to the light as I spoke.

The other officer, the one with twenty-seven years of service looked at me and spoke.

“There’s no way.” He said.

I knew what he meant.

The officer leaning into the car handed me the first baby as I’d asked and I walked with him over towards the police tape separating the scene from the crowd.

The boy was maybe eight or nine months old and he was sleeping.

“This is what sleeping like a baby must mean,” I thought.

He was maybe nine months old and handsome as handsome could be.

I cuddled him in my arms and wondered what my wife would say when I called her and told her that I was going to bring a baby home tonight.

In the middle of what can best be described as chaos, me, a forty-one year old white curmudgeon of a police officer held a nine month old black baby in my arms and nearly shed a tear.

I can count on three fingers the number of times I’ve shed a tear in my uniform, and every one of them involved a police officer’s funeral and some bagpipes.

For whatever reason though, I nearly shed tears as I held a baby whose mother I was sure was dying on the other side of a Chevy Impala.

As he was awoken because of the crowd noise, I wondered how he’d react. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I wanted him to stay asleep through this whole ordeal.

He rubbed the sleep from his face, and as babies who are awaken from their slumber prematurely do, he looked around confused by what was going on. He finally joined the ranks of the fully cognizant and made eye contact with me.

Just as I thought he was going to cry, he smiled. He smiled so big that his pacifier fell from his mouth.

We shared a few smiles and coochie coos with each other before he decided he was wet or hungry or just plain wanted his mother instead of the stranger holding him right then and there and began crying.

It’s been a little while since I’d held a baby that small, and my skills had clearly eroded. In my defense, I didn’t have a bottle or a baby toy with which to distract him.

As EMS raised the stretcher with his mother on it, I covered the baby’s face by touching my forehead to his.

“Shhhhhhhhh,” I whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

The boy continued to cry and I knew I could never soothe him.

He wanted his mom just then. I knew that from my own experience as a dad.

I knew when my own kids wanted their mom, just as I’d learned to know when they wanted me instead.

Parents get it.

Believing that their mother was being put into the back of an ambulance never to be seen again, I rubbed that baby’s head and hugged him tight.

He stopped crying for a few moments and I put his binky back in his mouth.

I looked towards three other officers trying to console three other, older kids and suddenly felt sad for all of them.

I looked at the baby in my arms and without thinking, I told him that I loved him.

He looked at me and furrowed his brow. I felt awkward all of a sudden.

I’ve made it a point with my own kids to say I love you as often as I can, because I suck at saying it, so I have to make myself say what couldn’t be any more true in my heart. The disconnect there is one of those things I just don’t get.

The baby started to cry some more and a sergeant came over and took the baby from me so that I could tend to something else.

As I watched the kids, kids I assumed were brothers, trying to register what was happening, my heart sank.

I walked through the crowd to a mini mart and made my way inside.

All eyes were on me in an uncomfortable way.

“Do you have any juice or milk I can have?” I asked. “I’ll bring money tomorrow. I don’t have any cash right now, but it’s for the kids across the street.”

After I said that, the folks in the store relaxed and were very accomodating. “Here, here, here, take this. How many do you need?”

“Just one.” I said.

Only the one seemed old enough for a drink outside of a bottle. The others seemed too young.

I made my way back to the kids and extracted the straw from its wrapper and poked it through the hole as only a dad with ten plus years of service can do.

I knelt down and gave the oldest brother his drink and told him to promise me he’d take care of his little brothers.

“Be a good big brother, okay? I’m the oldest of my brothers. It’s an important job.”

He said he would.

He got it.

He knows what’s going on because I suspect he’s a kid who’s living a rough life.

The news crews came and did their interviews.

I watched from my car as the news crews turned off their cameras and made their phone calls.

By this point, I’d heard that the woman who was shot was in critical but stable condition.

I was stunned when I heard that.

God bless EMS crews and trauma units for what they’re able to do, because I’d have lost a lot of money betting that the woman I saw on the ground earlier was going to meet her maker very soon.

That she’s alive makes me happy.

While I have my doubts, I hope her near death experience will cause her to appreciate her life and love her kids as though she were dying, because last night on that gas station parking lot, she was.

 

Posted in Police Stories, Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 77 Comments

That post last week…

Um, so remember last week this time when I was being bombarded with views to my blog because of that post I wrote that went sort of viral and stuff?

Well, it did. I lost count at the 75,000 views point. This one post nearly doubled the number of views of my nearly two year old blog. Wow!

Not only did it get hella shared on social media (cool people say that, right?), it was also Freshly Pressed, the next day. I understand that striking while the iron is hot is one of those things, but it really did catch me off guard.

I had started about twelve different posts about Ferguson during various stages of intoxication over the week prior to my post last week, but none of them felt right.

I wrote out of anger towards looters, then out of empathy for the family of the “victim” and I wrote out of anger towards people judging all cops based on a few and it went on and on. I never wrote anything that felt comfortable, until last Tuesday.

Last Tuesday, I woke up early and met the wife at Gman’s school. It was our last first day of preschool, so I didn’t want to miss it, even though I worked late the night before and may or may not have had several Bud Light Limes with the dogs when I did finally get home.

IMG_0192.JPG
Gratuitous cute kid pic (our last first day of preschool, hopefullly?)

I left Gman at school and returned home with every intention of falling to sleep again. ALL THE KIDS WERE IN SCHOOL!! Alas, after lying there for a bit, I had to accept the fact that, in spite of the rare moment of peace, I wasn’t going to fall asleep again. Hell bent on not getting out of bed yet, I reached for the iPad and started to write a post.

I knew I wanted to address the shitty events in Ferguson, because writing helps me process things, but I didn’t want to write anything that was inflammatory or that could necessarily be perceived as taking sides on any of the myriad issues that everyone had taken sides on by then.

It had dawned on me that I was getting inquiries from friends, both reality based and online, asking if I was okay and whether or not I was in the Ferguson mess. The folks asking about me were as close to me as the neighboring town I live in and as far away as the other side of the world.

It seemed as though the media had made the entire St. Louis region appear as though it was in shambles, and that simply wasn’t the case. Unless you were in the epicenter of the rioting, you could still be in the region, even in most of Ferguson itself, and not know that there was anything unusual going on. So, I wrote a post that was simply my, “I’m doing okay, thanks” answer to all my friends.

I wrote it while laying naked in bed, and like most things I do naked in bed, it didn’t take very long to finish. I clicked publish and was satisfied that I had posted something and could soon enjoy the comments of my regular 10-15 online friends.

After putting on some pants and getting coffee into my system, I got a text from Wife that said, “nice work, daddy!”

I hadn’t started cutting the grass yet, so I had no idea what she was talking about. It turns out she was talking about my post. Well, Wife is one of my harsher critics, so when I saw that she had posted a link to it on Facebook, I had to read it again myself.

I read it a few times, actually, and decided it was a pretty okay post. The story really tells itself; all I did was put it into words what was going on in my wee brain.

The post was shared by some of my other friends, and then friends of theirs, and before I knew it, it was all over my Twitter feed as well. Even the mayor of St.Louis’s press person retweeted it.

I was contacted by CNN to do an interview with Don Lemon, whoever that is, and by another agency as well.

It was pretty crazy, but I’m really glad to hear that so many people enjoyed the post.

I certainly didn’t invent the idea of being nice to the kids on patrol, and in fact, I wrote once about one of the men who inspired me to do it here.

Police officers going out of their way to help people is an everyday thing, it just seldom makes the news because, who cares if an officer gives a homeless man a few bucks or some new shoes or whatever, right?

We’re all human beings, so we should be doing what we can to help each other.

I don’t know how to find comments on places like Reddit or Stumblewhatever, but I can say that the comments on my blog page and most of those I’ve found outside of my blog have been supportive and positive. I say that only because it gives me hope that people still care.

People still enjoy hearing about the good that humanity has to offer, and that’s encouraging.

So, to all you new followers, welcome. If you haven’t read my other posts, you probably shouldn’t. Most of them aren’t touching in any way, though there are many pictures of my lips touching a bottle of beer, so there’s that.

I hope you’ll stick around and have fun with me here.

To my regular readers, thank you as always. I looked at the other post I wrote that was Freshly Pressed just about a year before the one last week, and was amazed to see that many of the people who commented on that post are still my friends today. Yes, I consider my followers my friends.

Thank you all so much for staying with me. Your comments and likes and love on Facebook make blogging one of those things I look forward to doing.

Well fuck (almost an entire post without saying it!), I have to get ready for work now, so until next time…peace!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 70 Comments

Meanwhile, just outside of ferguson…

I followed a trail of blood up the concrete steps as Deja vu overtook my thoughts.

I’d been here before, just a few short months ago, doing the same exact thing, following a trail of blood to an open front door.

As was the case then, on this night there had been another call for shots fired heard coming from the street.

A trail of blood, an open door and no body to be found.

Just like last time, the person was taken to the hospital by a friend, so we wait to hear from the hospital when they make their mandatory call about somebody coming into the emergency room with bullets in their body.

As I was checking the house for another injured or dead person, I couldn’t help but notice that the house was exactly as it had been before.

There was no furniture in the living room and there was trash all over the place. Paper plates with leftover food and cigarette butts littered the kitchen counter. The upstairs was where the televisions and furniture were kept. When you live in fear of drive by shootings, upstairs is the safer place to spend most of your time.

As I was leaving the kitchen, my eyes were drawn to the floor by a cockroach scurrying over a button, the kind that you can pin to your shirt to announce things like, “I voted” or “I gave blood!”

This button had a picture of Michael Brown on it and the words “Justice for Mike Brown” or some similar message around the photo.

There was something queer about the button being on this particular kitchen floor on this particular night, surrounded by roaches and drops of blood and dog shit as well.

I shook my head and left the house satisfied that nobody was dead or injured inside.

Just outside of Ferguson, life is going on.

The shootings and robberies and burglaries and car accidents and domestic incidents are still happening, and people are still calling for the police to come help them.

People still need our help, and we’re still providing it.

I’ve received many messages from people around the world asking me if I’m alright, asking whether or not I’ve been in Ferguson.

I am fine and I was up there for a little bit, yes, though not on the front lines of the chaos.

There seems to be a perception, outside of this area, that it’s a war zone here, that the whole region is in shambles.

I can see how a person might think such a thing. I mean, God forbid the national media folks take their cameras outside of the immediate area where all the trouble is happening to see that life is still being lived by decent folks, even just outside of Ferguson.

Just outside of Ferguson, here in St. Louis, I watched as several black kids played basketball in the street. They were the same kids I had watched playing ball several weeks ago.

The were playing with a basket that had a net attached to it. That’s a novelty in the city.

Several weeks ago, however, long before anyone knew who Mike Brown was, I watched as they bickered and argued and almost got into a fist fight, as young boys sometimes do, over whether or not a shot had gone through the rim or not.

“It went in,” I said from the car.

“Awe, NO WAY!” The defending boys protested.

“You need new glasses,” one of the boys shouted in jest.

He was probably right, but the ball had gone through the hoop, I was sure of it.

“And you boys need a new net,” I replied.

I got a call right about then and had to go. As I drove off, one of the boys asked me if I’d get them a net. I promised I would and left for my call.

A few days went by and I’d forgotten to get the net. I felt bad, so I drove around North St. Louis looking for a basketball net. Unbelievably, it’s difficult to find such an item in the area where I patrol.

Poverty and crime aren’t great assets for areas looking to woo businesses, so I had to venture into the County, towards Ferguson, ironically.

On a Saturday morning, I finally went to a Walmart and bought several nets. I went back to where the boys had been playing and got out of my car and started to walk to the netless rim.

As I was walking towards the rim, a man in a red Camaro parked right in front of the basket put his hands out the window and said, “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong, officer. Just waitin’ on my girl.”

It’s sad that he assumed I was headed to him, but I get why.

“I didn’t say you were doing anything wrong, partner. Carry on with your day,” I told the man.

Thankfully, the rim wasn’t set at the 10 foot regulation height, so I could reach it without having to balance on something.

I started to put the net on the rim and the guy in the Camaro got out and walked over.

“You bought that net?” He asked.

“I certainly didn’t steal it,” I joked. “I told the kids I would bring one a couple of weeks ago, so I’m making good on my promise finally.”

“Awe hell, that’s really cool.” He said.

He came over to the rim, grabbed the other side of the net and helped me put it on. We shook hands, thanked each other and went about our days.

As I watched the kids playing basketball the other day, one of the boys asked me if I was the cop who bought the net.

“Yep. It’s been a few weeks now and I’m still waiting to hear somebody say thank you.” I was just being sarcastic, but I’ll be damned if every last one of those little buggers didn’t immediately say thank you right then and there.

I was given the honor of a couple of shots with a ball that had no air in it and proceeded to chuck an air ball and what I believe is still called a brick before hanging my head in shame and leaving the kids to their game. I looked to the porch and got a smile from one of the adults, maybe one of their moms, and I smiled back. Smiles are small victories to me. They probably laughed at me, but if they did, they had the courtesy to wait until I left, at least.

The boys weren’t concerned with what was going on in Ferguson because they were too busy being little boys.

Most of the other people I’ve dealt with aren’t consumed by it either.

The Subway clerk was still friendly and didn’t spit on my sandwich.

An old woman took my hand in a parking lot and asked to pray with me. I’m not normally into such things, but in times of crisis, being open to anything can only help. She asked Jesus to lift me up and help me be just and fair and to remain safe as I do God’s bidding.

I don’t know about all that, but I was glad for the prayer. She was the second person to ask if they could pray with me in a week. It hadn’t happened, that I can remember, in the fifteen years prior I’ve done this job.

I’m still responding for calls about accidents and shootings and assaults and everything we always deal with.

Life goes on, even when there’s chaos.

Crime never takes the day off, and may even become worse when there’s chaos.

Still, I am responding and I am helping and I am hoping, just like I believe the citizens are, that the mess in Ferguson is resolved soon.

We hope all this violence isn’t for nothing.

Something has to change, and change for the better.

Shame on all of us, if we let this pass and we don’t become better people for having endured it.

That’d be a real shitter.

For my part, I’m going to just keep doing the best job I can.

To start, I’m going to buy a basketball and fill it with air.

I’ll bring it to some boys who have a basket with a net, but no air in their ball.

It’s a little thing, but it’s something I hope will help to build trust and healing and keep them from growing up scared of the police.

It’s the least I can do out here, just outside of Ferguson.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 223 Comments

Another day at the office…A near birth experience…

I was minding my own business in my police car with a 44 ounce iced tea between my legs, a handful of sunflower seeds in my mouth, one hand on the steering wheel, and the other wrapped around my seed shell spit cup, when I nearly ended a man’s life.

That there was a white man in the neighborhood I was driving in wasn’t really that shocking in and of itself. That he suddenly appeared out of nowhere and was now standing in the middle of a traffic lane, directly in front of my car, however, was.

I hit the brakes hard, causing my nearly full tea cup to lurch forward into the steering wheel. The contents of the bag I carry all my work shit in over on the passenger seat flew onto the floor board and I yelled, “What the fuck??!!!”  to nobody in particular before stepping out of my car.

“What the fuck?!” continued to be my theme as I thought it to myself while looking at the man with no brains standing in the middle of a busy, six lane roadway.

We made eye contact and I guess the look on my face was enough of a clue that I was pissed off and curious as to why he was throwing his body in front of my car that he immediately apologized and pointed towards some nearby apartments.

My anger turned to laughter (inside laughing only) as I watched this guy jumping up and down like a monkey as he pointed towards the apartment building.

“What?” I said?

He pointed and jumped and pointed some more.

“What is it, sir?” I was beginning to feel like Timmy’s mom talking to Lassie and trying to coax information from her as to whether or not something had taken place at the old mill.

While dummy continued to stand in the middle of the road jumping and pointing asininely at the nearby apartment building, a tall, older woman caught my attention by shouting out, “Officer.”

“Yes ma’am. What’s going on here?” I asked her.

“There’s a woman in there maybe going into labor.” The woman answered.

She pointed towards a gate that was normally locked, but that was being held open at this time by a little girl wearing a Girls on the Run tee shirt.

“Hey, sweetie.” I asked. “Did you do Girls on the Run?” I asked as I tried to stall for more time while thinking “please God don’t let there be a woman in labor beyond this gate.”

“I did do…”

“Malika!!” A woman shouted and cut the little girl off. “Let that man tend to Shanika.”

Ugh, I thought to myself.

Not 20 feet away from where I was trying to enjoy a conversation with a little girl at the gate to the courtyard for this apartment complex, there was a woman very clearly in labor, or so she thought.

“Fuck me.” I thought to myself.

While I know we’d all like to believe that our police officers are well trained in CPR or first aid and that such activities as suturing up sucking chest wounds or delivering children in an apartment courtyard are second nature, the truth is…they are not. Not to all of us, anyway.

I walked over the the very obviously pregnant woman seated in a plastic patio chair and asked her name and when she was due. She introduced herself as Shanika and said that she wasn’t due until October. She also said that her baby, well, she said “He” hadn’t moved all day. That was unusual, she said. He’s normally very active.

It worried me to hear her say that because number one, I’m not a Gynocologist, number two, I’m not even a podiatrist, and number three, I ain’t no sort of doctor PERIOD!

While I feel more than qualified to give expert advice and information to moms and dads to be via this blog or during conversations where the mom to be either isn’t even pregnant yet, or at least isn’t in the process of giving birth as we speak, when it’s the real deal event, I’m not the main man for the job. Also, in spite of my non-expert status at baby delivering, I still recognized that no movement seemed like a bad thing.

I noticed the woman was wearing a McDonald’s uniform and had a neck tattoo that seemed familiar to me.

“Are you going to work now?” I asked.

When she got done breathing hard and screaming in pain, she told me that she was sent home early from work. When I asked her which McDonald’s she worked at, it turned out that she worked at the one in a nearby truck stop that I like to visit from time to time. Her and I have talked before, but I don’t think she remembered.

We talked for a couple of minutes and then she suddenly got those pains again. She bent over in her chair and began breathing hard all over again, all the time barking out orders to her boyfriend about what she wanted him to bring to the hospital.

I laughed at the look on his face. He had that deer in the headlights look that I’m sure I had when my first was born eleven years ago last week.

I stopped laughing when Shanika started to contract again.

There were many other people around by this time, none of whom was a fucking doctor or nurse or midwife or online birthing video fetish enthusiast.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THE AMBULANCE!!!???????” I screamed inside my head.

I offered the woman my hand and she squeezed it tight as fuck. She was strong, and she was in labor to boot. “THANK YOU!” She yelled.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THE AMBULANCE!!!?????” I screamed inside my head again, but this time I had company. Shanika had yelled out the same thing as I was thinking it!

“JINX!” I said, to which she looked at me like I had seven heads. “Never mind.”

I was suddenly taken back to the only other time I was involved with the birthing of a child that wasn’t one of my own.

It was also while I was at work and it had also involved a lot of “WHERE THE FUCK IS THE AMBULANCE??!” screaming.

I don’t feel like reliving that moment, but suffice to say it was a disgusting, disturbing, bloody, messy, gross, messy, disgusting and beautiful, if not disgusting and messy, experience.

It was a boy, by the way.

I knew the boy’s grandmother and I ran into her at the chicken palace a few weeks ago. She was all excited and told me to come to her table, fast!

She introduced me to her grandson, the one that was a messy, disgusting sight to behold just thirteen years before. He was now a tall, much less disgusting young man with impeccable manners. I was very impressed with him and like to think that I played a small part in him growing up so well thus far.

Anyway, back to the six lane roadway.

By the time I’d snapped out of my trip down memory lane, the FUCKING AMBULANCE had arrived along with several fire trucks.

“You want us to take over, or do you want to do this?” One of the smart asses asked.

“Thanks for showing up, jerks,” I said. “Thank God nobody was dying.” I took off my plastic gloves as a sign of surrender.

“It’s all yours, boys.” I said.

As I was walking away, Shanika yelled that I better come see her for some free Egg McMuffins or hamburgers. I laughed at how absurd it was that she was thinking about anything other than her own pain and baby at that moment.

“She’ll be a great mom.” I told myself as I got back in my car.

Having been through four births in my life, minus my own, I was pretty sure that Shanika was going to be leaving the hospital in a few days as a new mom, so I was more than a little surprised to see her at work the very next day.

I looked at her and said, “What the fuck?” as I pointed towards her belly.

“Was that you yesterday?” She asked.

“It was.”

She ran from around the counter and nearly knocked me over with a bear hug that was completely awkward and wonderful at the same time. She smelled of french fries and milkshakes, so I loved her for that.

“I didn’t do anything, dear. I just held your hand for a minute while you crushed my bones with your strong, pregnant lady grip. How are you not holding a new baby right now?”

She smiled a wonderfully huge smile and told me that the baby was just in a weird position or something and that’s what was causing her pain.

She also said that she had sat in that chair for several minutes in pain surrounded by neighbors and her own baby daddy to be, and not a single one of them touched her or tried to comfort her from any closer than ten feet away.

“I think he was scared. You were yelling at him pretty good. Understandably so though.” I was trying to stick up for the poor bastard.

She said that when I offered her my hand, she was so grateful and relieved. She said she felt safe.

“Awe. That’s really sweet, Shanika. You just made my whole week. Do I get free egg McMuffins today?”

She laughed, nodded her head and took my hand to lead me to the register. Her hand was soft and warm, with just the right amount of squeezing this time. “She really is going to be a great mom,” I thought again.

They were the best egg mcmuffins ever.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 52 Comments

Ace, Ace, Ace!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!!!

It’s hard to believe that almost exactly 11 years from when most of you will read this, I was in a room with my family pounding cans of Natural Light from a cooler my brother had brought for me.

He brought a 30 pack because he’s always good about making sure we don’t run out of fun juice.

No, we weren’t on vacation in some beach front hotel room, rather, the reason for the beer was to celebrate the birth of my first born child, Ace!

She’s fucking 11!!

The nurse came into the room and sort of gave me a look like, “Really dude? Natural Light cans here in the room?”

I asked her if it was okay and she was totally cool about it.

“Just throw the empty cans away outside so it doesn’t stink up the room.” Was her only rule. Well, that and “She *nurse points to Wife* can’t have any.”

That was fair enough, more beer for me then, and we drank beer as we do when we have any reason to celebrate. I’m sure the wife was thrilled, but that’s how we roll.

As most of you know, I gots me two sons, Cool (5 now) and Gman (3 already).

They get a lot of play on this here blog because they’re sort of a team and they fuck things up all funny like together and make me chuckle. They’re boys, so doing stupid shit is in their nature.

Before the boys came along, however, I had me a girl.

A really special girl.

Ace mostly rolls her eyes at the boy shenanigans in the house, so it’s more difficult to catch her doing silly things. She does them, sure, but not as blatantly as her younger brothers.

Ace is a few years older than the boys because three weeks after we had her, I started law school. I was in law school, working my regular job as a cop and still working my secondary jobs too, so Wife was basically a single mom for much of Ace’s first few years.

I was always working or studying, so it wouldn’t have been fair to either of us to spit out another kid in the middle of trying to figure out how not to screw up the first one, so we waited.

That gave us a good run with the best girl a dad could ever ask for!

It seems like just yesterday we celebrated her first birthday. A friend of mine’s husband was director for the county parks and he got us a pavilion at a local park as well as some swim passes, all for free.

It sounds great, right?

It was, except for the fact that it was 137 degrees outside that day and I decided it’d be fun to barbecue for everyone. It was HOT.AS.BALLS!!

Happy first birthday, Ace.

Happy first birthday, Ace.

We made it through that day and learned our lesson about outside birthdays in July.

I assumed we could get away with just not celebrating her birthday ever again, but that didn’t fly.

Sorry kiddo, it's too hot for that shit!

Sorry kiddo, it’s too hot for that shit!

She’s been a good sport considering she has the DOAT for a dad.

I know most of you think that’d be pretty awesome, and it is, but it’s not all fun and games. She works around the house, and always has.

Not pictured - daddy drinking in a lawn chair nearby.

Not pictured – daddy drinking in a lawn chair nearby.

I was thrilled when she decided to dress up like her daddy on her first Halloween!

Moooooove your asses people, the cutest cow couple ever comin' through!

Moooooove your asses people, the cutest cow couple ever comin’ through!

She likes to play softball and has always had a pretty nice swing.

Ready to rip it!

Ready to rip it!

She’s also pretty good about sizing up the enemy when they get on base.

I'm not impressed with what I see here.

I’m not impressed with what I see here.

She’s an amazing kid and I couldn’t be more proud of her.

She wouldn’t want to admit it, but she’s got some goof in her. She’s more like her dad than she probably cares to admit.

2005-08-12 309

Sorry kid, it’s true.

We’ve always enjoyed our time together, whether it was riding horses.

2005-08-12 101

It sounded more fun than it actually was.

Teaching her gang signs.

IMGP1671

Fo shizzle daddy.

Or just smiling for the hell of it.

addi333

Smiling for the hell of it.

Here’s a couple of pics so you don’t have to read my words for a few scrolls. You’re welcome.

edmonds05cards 039

Gratuitous hat pic.

IMGP1714

Gratuitous bath pic.

Hahaha, and finally, here’s my baby girl and my mostly beloved Jojo. Ace has fed Jojo since she could walk, and still does to this day.

Even at 13, Jojo gets right up on her like she was below, back when she was a more spry 5 year old.

IMGP1733

OMG OMG OMG…FEED ME!!!

That’s all I got! This post was mostly for me to reminisce, but I hope you’ve enjoyed the Ace pics at least!

Have a great weekend.

Posted in Family, Humor, Parenting, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 39 Comments

Penises or peen or peni, whichever it is, 101…

I almost posted another riveting rundown of my past weekend, but I could almost hear the collective sighs from each and every one of you as you began reading the first paragraph, so I crammed it into the drafts folder to die pull out at a better time.

It did involve golf, a new iPad and my wallet’s contents being on an interstate highway yet again, so your loss!

Like a total douche, I was typing that weekend wrap-up post on my new iPad in public, instead of paying a lick of attention to my boys as they played at this pretty cool train place that’s absolutely free.

Free toy train place? OKAY!

Free toy train place? OKAY!

I know, right? Gman fucking loves this place! That’s a blueberry syrup stain on his shirt, for you curious people reading this. A woman actually stopped me on my way out of IHOP to tell me that my boys were exceptionally well behaved and that she was impressed with them. Awe, thank you old lady, that was sweet. She must have been in the shitter when Gman was dumping syrup all over everything except his silver dollar pancakes.

It was a Tuesday, so I was the only man here above the age of six, outside of the poor bastard working the register. They have a register because the place sells great wooden toy train tracks, trains and accessories, just like the stuff the kids play with at the train place, as Gman calls it.

It’s the sort of place where soccer moms hang out when they’ve tired of the park and it’s too early for wine. They mostly hang out in clusters and say things like, “Liam, make better choices!” or “Carter, did you push that little girl half your size down and take her train? That’s not nice. Mommy is sad at you now. Please give it back or mommy will have to give you more pills” or “Charlie, mommy won’t buy you a new train if you don’t stop screaming right this instant, 1,2, are you, are you tired? It’s okay everyone, he’s just tired.”

No lady, Charlie is just a fucking brat.

I don’t mind being the only man in such a place, and in fact, I actually enjoy eavesdropping on the conversations of perfect strangers, especially women, because sometimes they talk about fun stuff like…….penises!

PENISES!

I  heard the word and immediately perked up. My dirty word radar indicated that it came from the right, so I turned my head and noticed a couple of ladies conversating about said penises just off to my right. Is it peni? Peen? Whatever, they were talking about the one eyed monster, let’s leave it at that.

One of the ladies was clearly due to have a baby any minute now, so I knew that she at least knew what a penis was, amirite!!?

Shut up; I’m totally right.

Sadly, it wasn’t dirty talk at all though.

The woman with child (in her belly) was due to have her first boy, and the other woman had just birthed a boy of her own. From the looks of him, he was maybe nine months old.

The pregnant lady was sort of freaking out to the other one about diaper changing messes and little erections and baths and peeing while standing, and all kinds of crap, all while the other one was nodding in total agreement as if the fears were totally justified. I felt bad for this unborn child since it was pretty obvious that mommy was disappointed that she’d not be buying Barbies and dresses and attending gymnastics or dancing recitals, etc. I mean she still COULD I guess, but my point was she seemed disappointed and scared that she had a baby boy coming into her life.

I started to laugh hysterically inside my head, in part because I’m a dick, but mostly because it brought back some great memories of my own wife yelling from upstairs, “DON!! DONNIE!!! COME HERE, HURRY. PLEASE!!!”

The yelling was almost always while I was in the kitchen cleaning up dinner and she was giving the boys a bath. In other words, they were naked and freaking her out.

While once or twice out of the hundreds of times, it was something like a new eczema flare up or a turd related (constipation) issue, almost every other panicky yell involved a penis related emergency.

It was both hilarious and somewhat cute that she had so many little boy and his penis questions. While my wife has a younger brother, he’s nine years younger than her, so she never really had any hands on experience with helping her mom with the really dirty work that it takes to get a boy and his penis through life.

My wife is a college educated and intelligent woman, and she knows how to use the internet. In spite of this, she still had many questions and inquiries about what was going on with the boys and their peckers.

Why is it hard like that?

Am I hurting them if I do this?

OMG, are they sexual deviants? Are my boys perverts!!!!??

NO DEAR! NOT AT ALL!

It was all perfectly normal stuff.

As our two boys are only three and five, she has many years of penis stuff ahead of her, most of it much more vulgar and disgusting than what she’s experienced thus far.

Since I love her and may drop dead before the boys get married, I thought I’d write a post to assist her and the other moms of the world with their penis related fears.

So for all you confused and worried mothers of boys out there who didn’t have brothers or otherwise don’t know your way around a boy’s ding dong, here’s a list of some things you can expect of your boy and his penis:

Well, before we begin to get to the nuts and shaft of, haha, no, wait, the nuts and bolts of this post, I must forewarn you that I am not a doctor and I am not a blogger who wastes time doing research, so there is no science behind this post.

This is a blog post, not a doctoral thesis or dissertation or whatever they’re even called.

I am, however, a man.

I’ve lived with a penis for 41 years.

I have a dad with a penis and grew up with two little brothers who also have penises.

I watched my own mother struggle to understand and shake her head at us and our penises.

I have seen and experienced my share of penis related activity, so take that as a curriculum vitae that entitles me to be called expert enough to share my wisdom with the moms of the world struggling to understand what’s wrong with their little boys.

1. First and foremost, there is nothing wrong with your little boy. Boys have penises, and that’s a fact. They have this little protuberance and, as they’re little boys, must investigate its use. Why is it there and what do I do with it? If it makes you feel better, consider all the yanking and poking and touching it to various items around your house his own sort of practice in using the scientific method. He’s got a hypothesis, and that is “This thing between my legs is fucking amazing. It must be a magic wand or 11th finger that everyone wants to see and that I should use for everything.” He’s learning.

2. Your son loves you, mom, but he and his penis have a special relationship that you’ll never understand, and really, probably don’t want to. Don’t even bother trying to act like you get it and never try to get between your boy and his love for his penis. Just accept it as normal and do your best to make sure that he knows when it’s okay for him to whip it out and when it must be kept inside its trouser house.

For you visual learning moms, here’s how most men feel when we think about their penis.

A boy and his BFF!

A boy and his BFF!

2. Boners? Yes, they happen, a lot! They’re perfectly normal, even when the boy is less than a year old and doesn’t really know about women yet. It’s nature, man. If you have him out of his diaper and his lil johnson is exposed to air, chances are good that he’ll get excited. This isn’t only true when he’s 4 months old, it’ll be true when he’s 14, 34 and 104 as well. Don’t be scared of it, it’s just his penis with a bit more blood flow. That’s how he says, “hello mom, I love you,” before he can actually say hello. Just rub his little noggin (the one on his neck please) and say, “Oh son, you little scamp you. I love you too.” or something like that. It’ll go away on its own.

3. Baby’s little ball sack isn’t filled with faberge eggs and there really aren’t “family jewels” in there either, so they don’t have to be handled like they’re going to break if you wash them for him. My own wife often worried about whether or not she was going to hurt the boys, but up until a certain age (see above where I remind everyone I’m no doctor and I don’t remember my own experience) the testicles haven’t grown and there’s nothing there to hurt.

4. Boys who aren’t allowed to pee outside grow up to be serial killers. Is this true? Maybe, but probably not. I would bet that many serial killers did have some penis related issues as youngsters though. When a little boy has to go, he has to go. For my sons, when they say they have to pee, it means right now, not in five minutes or at the next exit, but right.fucking.now. Having boys who are confident and comfortable enough to piss on the side of the highway instead of all over your minivan seats is a wonderful thing. Let them practice in their yards, or better yet, the neighbors’ yards. They don’t pee any more than a cocker spaniel, so it’s not a big deal.

A fun way to potty train your little one is to let them try to write their name in the snow. There does become an age where it becomes necessary that they find discreet places to do their outside peeing, let’s call that age seven just to have a number.

Peeing is normal.

Peeing is normal.

5. There is probably nothing more disgusting and awkward in the world as a pubescent young man. He’s going to be awkward and his voice will start to change and all of a sudden, he’ll have testicles making sperm and semen and stuff. It’s a fact that your little angel will be in his room masturbating all over everything in sight. So gross, right? Wait till he’s doing it in your kitchen sink or in YOUR bed or in the garage or basement or in the car or wherever the urge hits little Johnny Cockknocker. It’s not his fault though, and it’s perfectly normal! Remember, it’s normal! Those Sears catalogs have lady models wearing bras and panties, so expect to never see one of those catalogs in tact until your boys are out of the house. I understand that the internets also has some sexually stimulating material on it as well. I’d suggest you maybe check Johnny’s browser history to keep him off sites that you don’t approve of. While some whacking off to Jennifer Aniston look alikes walking around naked is perfectly normal, there does become a point where normal has been left behind and we’re into let’s call a therapist territory. I’d say animal related stuff is a good red flag.

6. Once those balls have dropped, they become very sensitive to contact, but it shouldn’t really matter to you because it’s no longer cool for you to be washing them for him at this point. That’s gross, Jesus!

As everyone knows, getting hit or even grazed in the balls is the worst pain in the world, bar none. Ball damage can be very serious, so if your little teenager likes to play sports, he should be encouraged to wear a protective cup. It always amazed me the number of teammates I had who played baseball without one. Either they were extremely confident in their fielding abilities, or they were just morons, because a blow to the balls hurts like hell, much worse than even giving birth ladies. I mean, I know lots of ladies who’ve had multiple kids on purpose, but no man has ever volunteered for another blow to the nuts.

Well crap, I have so much more knowledge to share, but it appears I’ve written over 200o words already, and that’s my arbitrary cut off.

Sorry for the length, which by the way, is something only a few of us men ever have to say out loud. Hahahaha, see what I did there?

Do you have any fun penis stories or advice to share? Don’t be stingy.

Have a great rest of the week.

Posted in Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 46 Comments

Answers to your pressing police related questions…

Wow, I’m a posting machine here lately, aren’t I?

Sorry about that.

Anywho, an indeterminate number of days ago, I offered to answer y’all’s (is that the correct usage, Molly?) police officer related questions, since many of you show mild interest in such things from time to time.

I got quite a few questions, including about 50 from Julie over at Bugbytes. I’m guessing she typed them on her phone in between sets of squat thrusts or whatever it is skinny, strong people do to get that way.

The first 22 are from her.

I’m not even kidding.

Let’s do this.

1. But really – do you feel bad for crying, teenage girls? Do you let them out of tickets? I’ve gotten out of two for crying.

D: The only time I can recall a young lady crying, I wrote her a ticket. She cried, yes, and I may have leaned towards letting her go, but then she asked me, “Don’t you have something better to do than write tickets?” Yeah, don’t ask that unless you want that ticket for sure.

2. What’s your favorite doughnut?

D: Glazed. Glazed dipped in chocolate like at Krispy Kreme is really good, but glazed is my favorite and how I judge a doughnut establishment. Donut Drive-In in South St. Louis is my current favorite place, but that changes monthly. I don’t eat them in uniform when I’m in public, for reasons I assume are obvious.

3. What is the standard over-the-speed-limit-your-ass-is-getting-a-ticket? 11 mph? 12 mph?

D: Um, so this may shock you, but in 15 years, I’ve written one speeding ticket. I’ll never forget it either. The guy was probably doing 105 miles an hour in a white Nissan something or other. Do they make a Z something sports car? Anyway, he was flying and had he not pulled over, we’d have never caught him, but he pulled over because I guess he knew he was busted. We wrote him a ticket because I was with my training officer, so this must have been in 1999 sometime. So short answer is I don’t have a set limit.

4. Do you feel awkward frisking people? I would laugh.

D: I absolutely hate it for many reasons, not the least of which is the worry that I’ll miss something and somebody will get hurt. Also, many arrestees are filthy too, so there’s that.

5. Have you ever shot someone? 

D: No

6. I heard a rumor that cops get a full physical before becoming a cop. This includes a finger up the ass. True or False?

D: I did not get a physical that I can recall, but there was a physical abilities test and a psych evaluation for sure. I did get a physical to become the relief train driver at Grant’s Farm by the then St. Louis Cardinals team doctor, Dr. Andrews I think. Google all that to make sense of it.

7. Have you ever escorted a woman in labor to the hospital?

D: No, and I’d never escort a civilian anywhere with them driving their own car. I did take part in delivery in an apartment once, but that’s for another post. Suffice to say there was lots of crying and screaming and near vomiting, and that was mostly from me. I was 25 and didn’t have kids yet. Funny story too, I met that baby just this year at the chicken palace. He’s a nice young man.

8. Why did you want to become a cop?

D: My dad was a cop in St. Louis for a while in the 70’s and always talked about it. Many of his friends were cops and I always heard the great stories. Like a lot of boys whose dad is in a certain job, I always knew I wanted to try it, but never intended for it to be my career. 15 years later, I’m still trying it. Oh, and I like to help people and shit too.

9. Do you threaten jail to your fighting children?

D: Never have. They’re really only marginally interested in the fact that I’m a cop at this point, and that’s cool with me. As an aside, I hate when people threaten that to their kids when they see me in public. FUCKING HATE IT.

10. Scott wants to know if you have a ticket quota?

D: See above, I obviously do not. With all the computer usage nowadays though, you sort of have to be able to show that you’ve been doing something though. There are other things to be done outside of ticket writing. Remember too that I’m in a large urban area, so the job I do is different than a small town deputy or a state trooper.

11. Best excuse/funniest excuse you’ve heard to get out of a speeding ticket?

D: I’d really have to think about this because there are so many excuses or other sides to a story. I have a loved one in the hospital seems pretty popular. I arrested a guy for stealing a car the other day and he insisted that “The bitch traded me her car for crack because she didn’t have no damn money!” Poor guy was probably telling the truth too.

12. Do you do stand up on the scanners for the people listening at home? They probably frown on that, huh?

D: I’m pretty crabby on the radio, honestly. I was funnier a long time ago though, yes. Not stand up funny, but entertaining for the dispatchers anyway. We’re mostly professional on the air, I swear it.

13. You do know that everyone taps on their breaks and stares at you in their rearview mirror while driving on highway, right?

D: Yes. I still get nervous when a cop car is behind me too, even when I’m in my own jurisdiction and doing absolutely nothing wrong.

14. Give us a wave when you pass us.

D: Will do. I always try to smile too.

15. Do you chit chat with the arrested people in the back or are you silent?

D: That’s absolutely up to the person in the back seat. I do offer turn on the radio, if they want. My preference is really to not talk, but you’d be surprised how talkative people are on their way to jail.

16. Would you ever do an episode of Cops?

D: We have cameras in the car most of the time now, and I’m not a fan, so probably not. Taken out of context, a lot of what I say probably doesn’t look too good, you know, profanity and stuff.

17. Have you ever pulled over on the side of the road and taken a nap instead of clocking people? I think I would.

D: I’ve never taken the class or training to use the radar gun, so I’ve never even touched one. My car doesn’t have one in it either. I’ve been pretty close to falling asleep in the car, yes. We get tired like anyone else, but it’s too dangerous to do that where I work and really anywhere nowadays. If you aren’t exposing yourself to getting shot, you’ll get put on social media. I’m not sure which is worse.

18. Is it true that red cars are more prone to getting pulled over?

D: I have no idea if that’s the case or not. Do you drive a red car, Julie? And wear a lot of red hats and shirts and stuff?

19. Worst (best?) thing someone has called you after giving them a ticket?

D: Honkey Ass Cracka was pretty good. I’m actually told I’m not like most cops a LOT. I think it’s a compliment, or meant to be so.

20. Saddest thing you’ve ever seen while on the job?

D: It’s hard to call any one thing sadder than another. Whenever a person dies needlessly, it’s sad, especially when it’s a kid. Any sort of mistreatment or situation where I see a kid has no chance for a decent future is sad to me. This is especially true since I’ve had my own kids.

21. Funniest thing you’ve ever seen while on the job?

D: Fat, naked guy running around at Mardi Gras one time was pretty funny. He had this whole Frank the Tank thing going on because I think he thought there were others with him, but no, there were not.

22. Who’s the faster driver? A mom in a sedan or a dad in a truck? THINK WISELY, HERE.

D: I think the world of ya, Jules, but women are worse. The WORST! But they look better doing it.

Beth stopped by, yay! She wants to know the following:

1. What’s the strangest/worst DOA you’ve ever encountered?

D: I’ll exclude all floaters plucked out of the Mississippi River, because they’re in a category of their own. When I was a younger cop, I was the leanest first responder on a call to check on the well being of a person. The door was locked so the fire department removed a window air conditioning unit and beefy firemen tossed my skinny ass (it was a long time ago, okay?) into the house. Long story short, the woman we were looking for was on her hands and knees in the middle of her living room, dead, stiff as a board. One arm was up, reaching towards some pills that were on a television set nearby. I swear it. It was creepy. For real though, nobody dies with respect. It’s almost always a stinky mess.

2. What’s the most outlandish thing someone has tried to get out of a ticket?

D: I get a lot of do you know who I ams and that sort of thing, but nobody has really ever done anything outlandish. One woman told me that she was a stripper, which wasn’t an answer to anything I asked her. It was late at night and she was apparently coming home from work. She passed the jumping and bending and cartwheel DUI test with flying colors, so no ticket. (KIDDING!!?). It’d be nice to have a Tommy Boy type story where the occupant ran around their car yelling “BEES BEES, THEY’RE EVERYWHERE!!!” Lol.

From my pal Paul the Trucker:

What was the funniest encounter you ever had as a cop?

D: Hmmm, there are so many encounters over the years that it’s hard to pick one that’s the funniest. I’m a fan of anybody falling down, so once, a guy put his fists up like he wanted to box me. He’d just been in a fight in a bar and was hammered drunk. This was before we had Tasers, or I’d have probably hit him with that right then and there, but instead, he threw a swing at me (never close to making contact) and fell face first onto the concrete. He roughed up his face pretty good and then peed in his pants before yelling, “I’m not drunk! I’m drunk, but I’m not driving home!!” No sir, you won’t be driving home for sure. Lol. Maybe you had to be there. This was also funny too.

Mark asks, “Have you ever had a ridiculous handcuff incident, Don? On the job, on the job?”

D: Duh, on the job, Mark. I’m married so the other is silly fantasy stuff! I don’t really have one that comes to mind, but once, my partner cuffed some fat guy and he took off running, hands in cuffs. My partner, who is not fleet of foot, chased him and the sight of the fat guy and my lead footed pal running was pretty funny. He did catch up with the guy though and all ended fine.

From Hollie and subsequently, Nadia:

My question is: how many times a day do you have to stop yourself from saying, “you can’t really be that fucking stupid!”?

D: Uh, lots!! I also have to stop myself from asking if people really think that I’m that stupid too.

Red Dog - No sir, I’ve never pushed anyone down the stairs, swear it!

From my new friend Jen:

1. Best story about someone who got out of speeding ticket..

D: See above, I don’t really write speeding tickets. Boring, sorry.

2. Naked people. (That’s not a question, more of a general topic. Because cops plus naked people would have to make a good story…)

D: It’s not really a question, but the answer seems to always be PCP. It’s crazy.

Ugh, here’s notorious cop hater Girl Ryan – I’m making a list of questions for you- i have many.

For starters, why do cops always have to be so rude when they first pull you over?

D: I’m very pleasant to almost everyone, thank you.

How do you get out of a speeding ticket?

D: Don’t speed.

What happens if you are pulled over for a DUI?

D: Um, generally, if you’re drunk, you get in trouble?

Is it illegal to pee outside even if you have to pee really bad and cant hold it?

D: You live in New Jersey, right? My understanding is that people piss, shit and throw trash wherever they please, no? As for my part of the country, yes, it’s illegal to pee on the street. Don’t drink so much booze though and you won’t have that problem.

From perhaps my first ever follower, Canadian!!

How many times a shift do you touch your gun? Your REAL gun. Not the sexy one.

D: Haha, my sexy one! That’s rich. I touch it (the non sexy one) occasionally just because it’s on my hip there. I pull it out a handful of times a month though, I’d guess. Certainly whenever I’m checking out a house or building for burglars and such. Sometimes zero times sometimes several. Just depends on the time of the month and the phase of the moon.

The amazing DJMATTICUS!!

If police are there for our safety, then why do they hide on the side of the road to “catch” us speeding? And, along those lines, do you have any input on the “law enforcement” verse “peace officer” debate?

D: I don’t really do the whole speeding thing, so I’m not much help with that one, Buddy. We have a unit devoted exclusively to traffic and they do most of that stuff. It’s not really my bag. People drive like mad-men on some of the streets where I patrol though, so I’ll eat my lunch in a spot where people can see me and slow them down a bit, but I have no intention of writing a ticket, normally. The highway is one thing, but 70 mph on most city streets is unsafe.

I didn’t know there was a debate, but there’s truth in both titles. Keeping the peace is a big part of what I do, but there are different agencies that do more “law enforcing” I guess, like a trooper maybe.

Have you ever pulled someone over and had them be completely belligerent about getting a ticket? What did they do? (I may not like getting pulled over, but I’m always very polite…)

D: Lots of people are belligerent in their own way, or at least passive aggressive. If I sense any sign of that, I’m more apt to write a ticket. For example, if I have to tap your window to get you to roll it down, it’d better be broken or you’re getting some tickets. While I don’t write folks for speeding, I get them for any number of other violations. Nice people and people who are up front about being in the wrong almost always get out of tickets with me. I let more people go than I write for sure. I can’t recall one person being outrageously belligerent, but I’ll keep thinking on that.

A couple times I was pulled over in the middle of nowhere in Arizona driving between bigger cities and the officer asked me if I had any weapons in the car… Have you ever asked someone that? What was the strangest answer you received?

D: I ask about it a lot, yes, but not always. If the person isn’t doing anything like bending over between the seats or acting suspicious in some way or other, then I generally take care of what I stopped the person for and send them on their way. If I run their license and see that they have a violent history or robbery arrests, then I may also inquire as to what they have in the car. Smaller town officers or troopers don’t have the luxury of another cop being close by like we normally do in the city, so I can see how those guys and gals would be more apt to concern themselves with such things.

My favorite Southern person, Molly asks:

Do you wash your police uniform or is it dry clean only?

D: It can be done either way, but I get mine dry cleaned because I think it looks sharper. Looking like you care is half the battle with this gig sometimes. I think you lose a little bit of credibility, if you show up looking like you slept in your shirt.

How many times have you used hand cuffs this week? At WORK.

D: I’m on vacation this week, so zero so far! Generally though, I maybe put them on people two to five times a week. I don’t know what the perception is, but we don’t arrest people every shift or anything like that. It just varies.

Do you ever turn on the fancy lights and siren when you don’t feel like waiting through a red light?

D: I’m probably not supposed to say yes to this because it’s against policy, but if I had, it’s always on my way to a call for service, not to lunch or something like that. Honest!

Okay, this was way too long and I apologize for that! Hope it was at least mildly informative and entertaining. Sorry if I missed anyone, if I did, give me hell and I’ll make up for it somehow some day.

Have a great Monday!.

 

Posted in Humor, Police Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 37 Comments

A giant hill a sizable lake and a near death experience?…

Here’s a quickie for ya.

Ha, my wife will wince when she reads that line out of habit. She’s no doubt had enough of my quickies, but that’s for another day.

As you regulars will recall, last Saturday I whooped it up gettin’ drunk at a got dang country concert, cowboy hat and all.

This Saturday, I shall be whoopin’ it up all classy and shit on a golf course.

Your mind is no doubt blown by my versatility, no? I AM the donofalltrades though, right?

I haven’t golfed in over a decade, so this should be amusing. I mean I haven’t hit balls or even touched my clubs other than to move them to get to the lawn mower in the garage.

There will be yelling and cursing and maybe some crying and hurt feelings, but at the end of the day, there will be beer, and that makes it sort of okay.

The point of this here post is to entertain you with a story that came to me as a result of my pending golf adventure.

Back when I was golfing more regularly, it was nothing for me to go and play a round on my own, either early in the morning or right after work.

On this near fateful day, it was an early morning tee time, 8 AM to be exact. That’s hella early for unmarried, lives by himself, no kids at the time Don.

I was playing a course that was fairly new to the area and entirely new to me. It was across the mighty Mississippin in Illinois (the s is silent and it’s totally a real state in the USA.)

I paid my fees and got my cart all packed to go. Mercifully, I would be alone. Sometimes, when you golf alone, they stick you with another set of players and that just drives me fucking batty because so many golfers are douchy cuntbags, quite frankly. Either that or they’re old or they’re women or some other obnoxious subset of society put on this earth to make my round of golf miserable.

On this day, however, there was none of that. It was just me, all alone.

The first tee was a shot to a green that you can’t see because it’s apparently down a hill. I hit a beauty of a shot, straight as an arrow (no shit, I’m not even lieing) and gave myself a mental golf clap before getting into my cart to go fuck up the second shot.

As there was no signage saying “DO NO DRIVE ON THE FAIRWAY” I went ahead and drove onto the fairway, as that’s where my ball would be. Upon cresting the hill in my cart, I saw my beautifully placed shot awaiting me in the middle of what was a ginormous fucking hill. It was huge and the green was somewhere down below, on the other side of a small man-made lake.

Normally, such a hill is no worry, but at 8:07 or so AM on this morning, the grass was still wet with dew and Don’s golf cart was having no part in stopping due to said wet grassy hill and shitty rubber colf cart tires being unable to reach an agreement on traction arrangements. Their stalemate left me alone in a golf cart sliding down a giant hill towards a not so giant, but still sizeable man-made lake.

As I slid past my ball thinking, “Fuck, it’s gonna suck having to walk up this hill to get that ball” it dawned on me that this cart was going to end up in that lake and I wasn’t really in the mood to get wet.

I weighed my options and decided that the best course of action would be to abandon cart, so I did just that. Almost.

As I jumped from the cart like a cowardly golf cart captain, one of my feet, probably the less cooperative left one, became entangled between the gas pedal and the currently superfluous brake pedal. Is superfluous used correctly there? I like it and it’s staying.

Anyway, as you can hopefully visualize, my dumb ass is now being dragged down a giant grassy hill by a regular sized golf cart towards a sizeable man-made lake. I can now see that there are good sized rocks placed around the lake as well.

As there were still every bit of a half minute before I was going to reach the rocks, my thoughts turned from having to walk up the hill to get my ball to how bad is it going to hurt when the cart hits the rocks and snaps my shin bone in half as it topples into the lake. I may have been yelling profanities and calling for Jesus (we’re pals for you new readers who may not have known this) all the way down, yes. While he didn’t appear before me, Jesus may or may not have played a part in that cart hitting the rocks and just stopping.

Just like that, it was all over. The cart did not topple over and snap my leg, it just stopped.

I got up and quickly looked around so I could play this off as something I totally meant to do, but it wasn’t necessary as there wasn’t a soul around.

I played the front nine holes and then went into the clubhouse to chat with the golf man.

When I told him that I almost broke my fucking neck jumping out of his golf cart,  he said, “You’re not supposed to drive on the first hole fairway.”

Thanks for that information now, asshole.

“There’s no signage indicating that. Should I just have assumed that?” I asked.

He was clearly perplexed and I was becoming increasingly agitated and giddy at the thought of murdering this man with one of the many over priced golf clubs for sale right before my eyes.

As I imagined myself urinating on this man’s grave, another guy came in and apologized that the signs weren’t put up yet.

Thanks, asshole.

He did refund me my greens fee, so that made my experience much more tolerable.

I don’t recall if that was the last time I golfed, but it may have been. Let’s hope for a similarly sweet shot on that first hole and a much less traumatic rest of the way to the green.

Sorry, this turned out to be a not so quickie, after all. If only, amiright, Wife?? Whatever.

Have a great weekend all.

Posted in Humor, Stories | Tagged , , , , , , | 19 Comments