Sunday, May 02, 2004
Volume 1: Cops, Robots, Soldiers, and the Annoying Customer Service Person on the Other End of the Phone
The other day I was accosted by a female cop. I refer to her as Mr. Police Woman. I must warn you before I tell my morning tale. The image I'm creating here is not a pretty one, my friends - not at all. Innocent eyes are waking from a sweet, sweet slumber, in which they see only what they want - eyes waking to a morning, whose stage is set by the venomous hands of those who get their kicks by causing really nice people to have crapola mornings.
And so... a drama begins: The curtains rise. Somehow the audience knows that the story takes place in the morning (it's probably written in the program). On stage is a dirty Jetta with hazard lights blinking. A person (gender does not matter), fashioned in a uniform that can only suggest bad news for illegally parked cars, is standing near the driver's side and placing what is most assuredly a parking ticket underneath the windshield wiper. Slowly gaining momentum, laughter percolates from the mouth of Parking Ticketer Person (PTP). Turning to the audience, PTP bursts into shrill and maniacal shrieks and skips away, exiting stage left.
Two seconds later, Mr. Police Woman (MPW) enters stage right. Sporting a mullet and displaying herself in a stance modeled after a soft ball player, she purses her un-lipsticked lips, eyes fixated on the soiled sedan. Her demeanor warns that no shenanigans will be allowed during her watch. No sir-ee-bob - she's all business, and goddamn it you better abide by every little law in the book. Thumbs tucked into her pants, Mr. Police Woman meanders her polyester, badge wearing self over to the blinking automobile. She inspects the car and examines the parking ticket. Shaking her head and chuckling to herself, she pulls out her pad of citations and begins to write. If the story took place after lunch, a tooth pick would be moving side to side in the mouth of Mr. Police Woman.
Entering from stage left, is a flustered and hurried looking girl - a sweet girl and, I would say, with my eyes in a bit of a squint, that, yes, she is quite cute. The girl, who we will call Cuteng, runs to the dusty car with her satchel and gym bag in tow. Realizing the injustice that's about to occur, Cuteng looks to the officer and spews out a tumble of words spelling out excuses and preaching the injustice of double punishment for the same crime. She points to the already issued parking ticket underneath the wiper. MPW rigidly stares at Cuteng giving no response. Moving from a brief state of perplexity, Cuteng puts her things in the vehicle, shuts the door, and showing no fear, stares into the stare of Mister. And this is where the story ends and little bothersome thoughts begin.
To make a long story short, Mr. Police Woman didn't give me a second ticket, but she sure thought about it. AND she expected me to be grateful. Just to recap here, I was already issued a parking ticket, when, not even 30 minutes later, Mister herself arrived on the scene and began to write a second ticket for the same parking violation. I'm sure you can see the grave injustice that could have taken place.
It's stuff like this that really burns my bubble of a butt. Thoughts of MPW's overbearing, audacious presence enraged me as I was driving myself to work. Maybe I just got up on the wrong side of the bed, but a bee, with a buzz as annoying as a police siren, flew into my bonnet and spurred a lot of thinking. I sat down at my desk, started to write, came up with some titles having to do with parking or ugly police women, when the above title (minus the Volume 1 part) infiltrated my bee stung brain. I was perplexed with the meaning of the title and its relation to my parking experience. Finally at lunch it all came together, but in fragments. I only had a feeling that the subjects were connected in some way, but I had trouble putting it all together...
And so... a drama begins: The curtains rise. Somehow the audience knows that the story takes place in the morning (it's probably written in the program). On stage is a dirty Jetta with hazard lights blinking. A person (gender does not matter), fashioned in a uniform that can only suggest bad news for illegally parked cars, is standing near the driver's side and placing what is most assuredly a parking ticket underneath the windshield wiper. Slowly gaining momentum, laughter percolates from the mouth of Parking Ticketer Person (PTP). Turning to the audience, PTP bursts into shrill and maniacal shrieks and skips away, exiting stage left.
Two seconds later, Mr. Police Woman (MPW) enters stage right. Sporting a mullet and displaying herself in a stance modeled after a soft ball player, she purses her un-lipsticked lips, eyes fixated on the soiled sedan. Her demeanor warns that no shenanigans will be allowed during her watch. No sir-ee-bob - she's all business, and goddamn it you better abide by every little law in the book. Thumbs tucked into her pants, Mr. Police Woman meanders her polyester, badge wearing self over to the blinking automobile. She inspects the car and examines the parking ticket. Shaking her head and chuckling to herself, she pulls out her pad of citations and begins to write. If the story took place after lunch, a tooth pick would be moving side to side in the mouth of Mr. Police Woman.
Entering from stage left, is a flustered and hurried looking girl - a sweet girl and, I would say, with my eyes in a bit of a squint, that, yes, she is quite cute. The girl, who we will call Cuteng, runs to the dusty car with her satchel and gym bag in tow. Realizing the injustice that's about to occur, Cuteng looks to the officer and spews out a tumble of words spelling out excuses and preaching the injustice of double punishment for the same crime. She points to the already issued parking ticket underneath the wiper. MPW rigidly stares at Cuteng giving no response. Moving from a brief state of perplexity, Cuteng puts her things in the vehicle, shuts the door, and showing no fear, stares into the stare of Mister. And this is where the story ends and little bothersome thoughts begin.
To make a long story short, Mr. Police Woman didn't give me a second ticket, but she sure thought about it. AND she expected me to be grateful. Just to recap here, I was already issued a parking ticket, when, not even 30 minutes later, Mister herself arrived on the scene and began to write a second ticket for the same parking violation. I'm sure you can see the grave injustice that could have taken place.
It's stuff like this that really burns my bubble of a butt. Thoughts of MPW's overbearing, audacious presence enraged me as I was driving myself to work. Maybe I just got up on the wrong side of the bed, but a bee, with a buzz as annoying as a police siren, flew into my bonnet and spurred a lot of thinking. I sat down at my desk, started to write, came up with some titles having to do with parking or ugly police women, when the above title (minus the Volume 1 part) infiltrated my bee stung brain. I was perplexed with the meaning of the title and its relation to my parking experience. Finally at lunch it all came together, but in fragments. I only had a feeling that the subjects were connected in some way, but I had trouble putting it all together...
