Wednesday, October 26, 2005
You must respect my authoritah! Please?
I received my very first speeding ticket! Thank you very much!
I know what you're thinking. If you've ever been in a car with me, you're thinking, "How the hell did that Menace to Pedestrians and Small Animals ever go ten years on the road without a moving violation?" And the answer to that question, my friends, is Dumb Luck. Speed-wise, I drive like a maniac and I'm proud of it. People who drive slower than me are idiots. People who drive faster than me are reckless. I am perfect.
I knew, though, that the crazy mixed-up rules of the road were in conflict with my driving philosophy, and that it was only a matter of time before Johnny Law caught up with me. I always imagined it -- like I imagine so much else in my life -- like a shitty, hacky movie, with a tall police officer in a giant hat and aviator sunglasses slowly ambling up to my car and asking me, in a thick Southern accent, if I had any idea why he'd pulled me over?
But it was not to be. I was caught in the most shameful way a Proud Speeder such as myself could get caught: In a speed trap.
There is no glory in a speed trap. Getting caught in a speed trap doesn't mean you're some sexy Rebel Without a Cause, throwing caution to the wind, driving fast with no place to go and no one to answer to. No, getting caught in a speed trap just means you're unlucky. It means you weren't even necessarily going any faster than anyone else, you just failed to notice that unmarked Crown Victoria parked on the median of I-95. It means you don't even get pulled over by yourself, so that those who pass you by on the side of the road can remark, "Fucking pigs!" at the injustice of such a hot chick in such a hotter car getting nabbed by the popo. No, instead you're pulled over in a group, so that those who pass you by can remark, "Ooh, I better slow down the next time I drive this stretch of road, as they set up speed traps here." Yawn.
And things did not get any better when Officer Mild-n-Polite walked up to my window and informed me that I'd been going 73 in a 55, but he'd only write me up for going 64, because the penalty was less, and please be careful when pulling back out onto the road, and have a nice day. That's so nice! Damnit! I don't want to like you, Mr. Policeman, I want to righteously hate you for cramping my wild and crazy style! I want to tell you that you may have clocked me at 73, but that must have been before I accelerated because I go 73 in my driveway, motherfucker! But no.
So yeah, that was my first speeding ticket. It was boring. It's not even really a story. But I told it to you anyway, because I'm still a little bit proud of getting the ticket, even though I didn't spend the night in the slammer, like I'd always dreamed. Oh well.