Kidding. I’m not a citizen. I can never vote.
Today is a day for the history books, Election 2008. A wise man told me the other day that it didn’t matter who got elected into the White House, because either way they’re going to die within days. “Why?” I asked. “Because if Obama gets elected he’ll be assassinated, and if McCain gets elected he’ll die of old age.” Made sense.
Today I paid off one of my speeding tickets. The other day I got two speeding tickets within hours. The first, 15 over, was reduced to be only 10 over by a leniant policeman. However, it could have been much worse had the cop caught on to my attempted escape. The situation: I’m speeding like a maniac over a hill near my neighborhood. As soon as I come over the crest of the hill, a sheriff in a Dodge Charger passes me coming from the opposite direction. Shit, I hiss.
Quickly I plot my plan of action. Since the cop is going to have to pull over and turn around to get me, I could pull off into a tree covered driveway or side road and hide. However, I potentially have time to slam on the gas and recklessly speed toward the interstate and try to hop on I-80 before he has a chance to get me. I couldn’t find a hiding place I was comfortable with, so I went with plan B. I speed around the curvy road and run a stop sign on my way to Highway 6, en route to I-80. In my rearview I see the cop car pulling over the hill in my pursuit. Crap.
He gets closer and closer and I act like I hadn’t been doing anything wrong. There go the cherries. I pull over. At this point I’m not even mad. I’ve been caught, but on the plus side it has always been my dream to be pulled over by a Dodge Charger. The cop only gives me a ticket for 10 over instead of 15, and I express to him how excited I was that he was in a Charger. He responds by saying he’s glad he could make my dreams come true, and I go on my merry way.
Only six hours later, I am on my way to pick up the boyfriend from the airport. I was in no hurry of any kind, but something about the interstate makes my foot attack the gas pedal out of habit. I see a state trooper come after me from the shoulder of the road. At this point I am genuinely confused. I really did not think I was speeding excessively. Turns out I was going 77 in a 60, a pretty serious ticket, although not enough to lose my license. “Is there any possibility you would turn this into a warning, officer?” I ask. “See, this actually makes it worse, but I got a speeding ticket earlier. My insurance is going to rape me.” He offered a STOP class which I would have to pay for, but it would clear my ticket, my record, and my insurance would never hear about it. Obviously I opted to take the class.
I arrive bright and early, 7:45 a.m. on the following Friday morning. Most of the traffic violators around me are either white trash, old as hell, or Asian (obviously). Fortunately the boy to my right smelled like pot and cigarettes. We became immediate friends. The person to my left, a non-English speaking Asian, has a lavender colored hair scrunchie, bifocals, and sideburns:
The class is 8 hours long. EIGHT. Eight hours is way too much time to simply tell me not to speed. Eight seconds is long enough to tell me not to speed in 4 different languages, including sign language and braille. I had to find ways to entertain myself, so my new friend Jesse and I played squares and wrote each other hate mail the entire time. Our instructor Jim Dobey was very passionate about driving, and Oldsmobiles. There were a lot of idiots in my class of about 60. Allow me to quote a few select individuals:
Jim Dobey, STOP class extraordinaire: “Everyone go around the room and tell us why you’re here.”
Old woman with cane and tinted prescription glasses: “I got pulled over for stopping at a red light!”
(People look around confused.)
Old woman: “Well I stopped in the middle of the intersection.”
Yeap. Ok grandma. Stop lights only work if you follow them correctly.
Uneducated middle-aged white trash woman: “I rear-ended someone on the interstate.”
Jim Dobey: “Oh no! Did anyone get hurt?”
Trashy woman: “No, but that thing that’s s’posed to pop up and hit you in the face didn’t even come up!”
Ok. It’s called an “air bag,” Debra.
Anyway, I have a lot of things to do. And by “things” I mean “people.” Cheerio, lasses.
Mom: “Do you want some tea?”
Me: “Nah, I don’t really like tea. Well I don’t mind it. Actually I really like tea. Okay I’ll have some.”