By contributing writer T. White
It’s pretty easy to forget your friend fucked that 200 pound cow when your other friend fucked a 340 pound whale. If you’re going to rob someone, burn the house down—no one will give a shit it was robbed. Moral of the story (or two sentences): if you want people to forget you pissed yourself, then shit in your pants.
It doesn’t take too much elaboration to understand the point, but for the sake of a) a funny story and b) an 800 word minimum, I will drag on… err, proceed.
When I was in high school I had a friend, we’ll call him Danny, who got into a car accident (bear with me). He was driving home from dinner, most likely thinking about how I am a man among penis-less boys, when he got hit head on by oncoming traffic.
Danny survived (somehow), but the accident scene looked like God ate a car factory and had explosive diarrhea on Route 9. The kid who hit him had been racing his friend on a two lane road and smizzashed right into Danny’s car.
This kid was clearly at fault for numerous violations including, but not limited to, being fat, ugly, and driving like an (insert stereotype). What the police failed to notice in all this commotion is that this kid was completely shit-faced.
This is very important to note. The fugly son of a bitch had (according to inside sources) just won a 6-round funnel race before hopping on the road. Yet, he merely got booked for said violations; and probably others including speeding, reckless driving and what not.
What I took from this absolutely terrible accident is a very important concept: I can get away with a whole lot of messed up stuff…. As long as I do something even crazier to make people forget about it. Cue my first speeding ticket.
I was out at my friend’s place for the night, doing what any respectable young gentlemen would be doing: drinking my face numb. This was not an especially high fluid night. That can be thanked in part to someone forgetting to blow out a flaming shot before drinking it (Andy).
Part 2 of the night involved pain medication for said melted lips. This is probably a good time to point out that while I am very in control drunk, and very in control stoned, a combination of the two renders me useless as a human and incapable of making wise decisions. So I said goodnight to my brain. “See ya in the morning so you can bang against my forehead.”
What inevitably follows herbal medication? Food. Oh no! We have been drinking all night! One kid even managed to burn a hole in his face! Oh wait, I don’t have to consult my brain anymore… hop in the Mazda.
This was the first weekend after I had just gotten a new car—a Mazda 626. Not a race car by definition, but I don’t let dictionaries control me.
It did strike me that, should I be able to figure out how to get my car into drive, I would most likely be pulled over. It was about this time I thought of Danny’s car crash. All I would need is a diversion. Speeding should do just fine. Oh ya, foot on the brake to shift gears.
The speed limit was 40 mph. Haha. I kept flooring until I hit 90, at which point I had to make a decision: either pass the minivan not far in front of me (in a double yellow) or slow down.
The beer said, “Slow down, idiot.”
The pot said, “Slow down, you fucking idiot.”
The two of them together said, “Gun that shit!”
And gun it I did. I maxed out at 125 before having to brake for the grocery store (it takes a long time to slow down from 125 mph).
For convenience purposes I parked in a handicapped spot. At that point I was about as handicapped as you can be while still maintaining an upright position. As I departed I saw what can only be described as a rocket with blue lights flying into the parking lot. Turns out this rocket was being flown by a state police officer.
To make a long story short, he was upset. I had, unknowingly, passed that minivan around the same time he passed me in the opposite direction. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Massachusetts state laws—laws which I was quickly informed of—if you double the speed limit on an interstate highway it is the law that your car must be towed and you must spend the night in jail.
Fortunately for me, the cop had a family emergency and “estimated” my speed at 75 (5 below double) so he could “not sit around and wait for my fucking car to get towed and write out 10 fucking pages of paper work for my fucking stupid fucking ass.” I think he had a crush on me.
But let’s step back. I was completely wasted out of my mind. The cop was so mad, so infuriated by my speeding, he didn’t even notice. I was driving 125 mph in a 40 mph zone for the sole reason of buying junk food to feed my drug and alcohol obliterated body. After what would guarantee most men at least one night of hide the sausage, cost me a $325 traffic violation.
Oh, and I brought it to court to fight the notion that his “estimation” was actually accurate. It was reduced to the minimum. Don’t try this at home. You’re not me.
P.S. If you’re a law enforcement agent or my parents, this never happened. If you’re not, yes it did.