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6:01 p.m. - 2002-12-19


So yesterday I’m driving to work, minding my own business. Not hurting anyone, not making obscene gestures towards other drivers, not doing donuts in the middle of the highway to impress the high school chicks.

And I see this motorcycle cop.

I contemplate waving at him because I’m in such a goddamned good mood but choose not to. I keep driving.

He turns his little blue light on which makes him feel all important. Mr. “Hey Everyone! Look At Me! I’ve Got A Big Blue Light On My Motorcycle”.

Fine. I’ll humor the bastard.

I pull over and reach for my wallet.

“Hands on the steering wheel, please,” he shouts out.

I felt like yelling “Just lemme get my gun real quick!” but didn’t, because I’ve grown accustomed to the seven holes in my head and prefer to keep the status at that limit.

Joe Cop saunters up to the window and asks to see my license.

I tell him to say “Pretty Please” first.

He does.

I give him my license.

“I clocked you at 60 in a 45,” he says, like all of a sudden my ass is supposed to be able to speak Cop Talk.

“10-4, good buddy,” I said, not really knowing what else to add to the stunted conversation.

He walks behind my car, grabs his little metal clipboard and starts writing stuff down.

Suddenly, it dawns on me … this sonofabitch is giving me a ticket!! Hell … I’M NOT EVEN STONED, COP!!

The first thing that goes through my head is “I’m fighting this one.”

Not…you know…jumping out of the car and pummeling the poor bastard in the head. I mean … I was going to fight the ticket. I have no idea how fast I was going. I don’t have time to sit there and keep a close eye on the speedometer for chrissakes. I’m trying to find something decent to listen to on the radio by an artist who’s older than 20 and hasn’t shot any members of his immediate family. That takes up the majority of my concentration while driving. I’m barely even paying attention to my speed, thank you.

So El Coppo takes his sweet assed time writing out the ticket while I sat there and froze my ass off in the car, not really knowing if I’d get shot for rolling my window up or not. Remembering that I’m not, in fact, residing in Los Angeles, I deduce that it takes more than rolling your window up at a traffic stop to get your brains splattered all over the dash. So I roll the window up.

The fucking pig comes back to my car and raps on my window. I roll it down. He asks me to sign the ticket and points out that my court date is February 3rd but if I decide that I want to just pay the ticket that I should just call the phone number that he wrote down and they’ll tell me how much it cost to go 15 miles over the speed limit in this town and then I’ll be free to clean the shit out of my pants after I hear the mind-numbing figure.

I take my sweet-assed time reading all the fine print because it’s cold outside and this guy stopped me for going freakin’ 60 miles an hour in a 45. In my defense, it’s a big four lane road…not a residential area, just a stretch of road with a cow pasture on one side and some strip malls on the other.

I finally sign the thing and as he’s walking away, I quietly say “Thank you.”

The cop whips around and says “What?!?”

Obviously, he thinks I said “Fuck you.”

…Which…okay … I did.

But I quickly said in a louder voice “THANK YOU!” and rolled up my window to leave.

I peeled out, leaving the cop in a cloud of dust and hauled ass to work.

I called the phone number that Johnny Cop gave me.

The cost of my ticket…for going 15 miles over the speed limit … was $123.




I did a Google Search for “Beating A Speeding Ticket Given To You By An Asshole Cop” and found Bogus

For $14.95, a former state trooper will spill the beans on how I can successfully contest this ticket and have my case dismissed.

He explains that all speeding tickets amount to are easy ways for the city to fund its latest projects, whether that’s filling potholes or courting crack whores.

And if I don’t win, he’ll refund my $14.95.

I cannot go wrong with this one. If I win, I have beaten the system and that’s one less crack whore packing up her bags and moving here from Mississippi.

If I lose, I get my money back for the book.

I’m doing this.

Uncle Bob’s going to court. Uncle Bob’s going to serve as his own attorney. Uncle Bob’s going to win and have his ticket torn up.

And if not … well Uncle Bob has yet another exciting adventure to write about on his site.

Here’s irony for you.

I called the Mrs. to tell her that I knew what I wanted for Christmas this year … to have my speeding ticket taken care of.

She got real quiet.

…right before she told me that she received a speeding ticket last Friday night on her way home.

She was going 80 in a 55. Which makes her an even less responsible driver than me.

She didn’t want to tell me about the ticket because she was embarrassed.

I don’t understand why you’d be embarrassed about getting a speeding ticket. I can understand being embarrassed after being caught picking your nose by a co-worker. Or passing gas in front of a cute member of the opposite sex that you’re trying to impress.

But not getting a speeding ticket. That shit just goes right over my head…being embarrassed about something like that.

So now we both have speeding tickets.

And we’re both going to contest them in court.

This should be fun.

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