Hot Fuzz

I love the Internet. After you get home, there’s so much you can do to relieve yourself from the doldrums the work day relentlessly breeds. (The mundane, I swear, it multiplies like it’s a coupla Catholic bunnies.) From the many hours of my life sacrificed at the altar of our newest god, YouTube; to the burgeoning days of where I spent, oh, an every now and then looking for old girlfriends so I could rate them “hot” (I’ve got a reputation to protect, don’t ya’ know); to the social networking sites of and where I get to point and laugh at a number of people I randomly happen across… and who’re probably laughing just as loudly as they look upon my antics; the Internet certainly cheers me up throughout the day.

My favorite site for this day, however, is not a comic, nor a movie trailer site, nor even an opportunity to kill some zombies (hint: go for the knees).

Today’s fun site is Cops Writing Cops.

I admit it, I’m a sucker for some of the drama out there in Internet Land. Even if the drama is entirely manufactured and magically pulled from the rabbit’s furry butt, it amuses me. In this case, it amuses me a bunch. Here we seem to have a site dedicated to police officers complaining about other officers because they, the writers, received traffic tickets from their blue-shirted bruthas. They detail badge numbers, departments, where they got busted, and when available, first and last names of the ticket-writing coppers.

Oh, John Law. You funny.

The rest of us civilians complain often and loudly when we get tickets. Whether we’re guilty as hell, or the ticket was given in error (me, I’ve always been guilty of speeding, but I make allowances for you angels out there), we reserve our right to gripe, whine, moan and grumble. Schadenfreude in cases like ours can be dull and as tasteless as brussels sprouts because, hey, tickets happen to most everyone and even Turkish Delight becomes commonplace after too many helpings.

In the case of Cops Writing Cops, however, it’s a delicious feast.

Mind you, not because of any special dislike of the police. No, it’s because the level of entitlement in these stories is turned up to 11. Perhaps the one comment that sums the whole site up for me is:

“Please someone explain this mentality to me. No matter how much I try I just don’t understand why a brother officer feels so compelled to write another officer a ticket. I can’t see any other explanation other than the fact that he is simply a DICK.”

Really? Not even if you tried really, really hard? Not even then would you think about how breaking the law is sometimes tailed by actual consequences? Not even when you consider that a blanket allowance of letting other officers out of tickets is a shining example of corruption?

Still, that’s not even the worst (just the majority of complaints); the extra, super-special unbelieveable complaints are the ones where the writers talk about how their spouses and kids aren’t being given a pass—even if they go the extra mile and offer to let the ticketing officer to talk to their Keystone relative on a cell phone.


I wish I were an officer; I’d submit my own story:

I was traveling westbound on I-66 on Sunday going 5 in a 55. In a seat beside me were a bloodied butcher’s knife and a puppy I like to kick; in the backseat were a bomb (conveniently labeled “Bomb!”), a preserve jar filled with ominous feeling, Satan, Thomas Beckett, that loving feeling someone lost, and the 1999 version of Napster, back when it was an evil, evil file sharing program.

And, wouldn’t you believe it? A state patrol cruiser flashed its lights for me to pull over! I was tempted to push my Ford Pinto (orange and white) up to 10 and make a break for it, but I figured, nah, I’m an officer of the law; I’ll be thrilled to chat with my fellow copper, receive a chastisement, pretend to learn my lesson, and go on my merry way.

After we safely settled in the grassy median (I can park there when being pulled over; I have a badge, and it’s shiny), the officer got out of his car, mosied on over, and knocked on my window. “License and registration, please,” he said.

“Sure. Here you go officer. Also, here’s my department badge, Fraternal Order of Police certificate, ‘I’m a cop! Truly!’ bumper sticker, and my penis. It’s detachable.”

The trooper peered inside my car. “Is that Satan?” he asked, and glanced at The Evil One.

“Yes. A few beers, a midnight ritual, blood of my neighbor’s cat, this is what happens.”

“And have you been kicking that puppy?”

“Every hour on the hour!”

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

Awesome, I thought. He’ll probably come back with a beer for me. Or, maybe even a pretty girl in fishnet stockings who’s been very, very naughty. I like being a cop.

But, no! The bastard came back with a ticket. A ticket! For driving too slow. A ticket! The fucker! “Wait one second!” I yelled at him. “I’m an officer of the goddamn law! Where’s the courtesy, the respect, the fraternal—and completely platonic—love for another dude of the blue?”

He shrugged. “Look, I ignored 1999 Napster. That should be enough. Have a nice day.”

Yeah, yeah, right. Nice day my ass, Officer O’Malley O’Brian, badge #3422556Bc1$. You just wait until I get home to blog about this. You’ll rue, my friend, you’ll rue this muthafuggin’ day!

Hmm… perhaps I should post it over there, anyway. It certainly couldn’t be any less jaw-droppingly astounding than some of the other stories. Plus, who knows, maybe I’ll impress enough people that someone will offer to send me a junior policeman badge.

That’d rock.

Posted Friday, October 5th, 2007 at 2:43 pm
Filed Under Category: ya' know?
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