| NOTE: this blog is a bit long, and only lightly peppered with humor...I simply felt like writing it... so, I did.?The story is a good one- but the delivery is sculpted?by necessity, rather than?wit....Just felt you deserved a fair warning....Do as you please......?================================================
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An embarrassing story?...Sure, I've got shitloads of 'em.Listen up, kids Some of you know about the special lists I've landed on over the years- but for those who don't, here's the Reader's Digest version: I used to be a thug.I got involved with gangs and the "gang Lifestyle" around the age of thirteen- got on the "Gang list" at the age of fifteen- and made the FBI's "Domestic Terrorist" watch list at seventeen All this shit means one thing- the police didn't need a reason to search or harass me. When I would get pulled over or approached, if I asked them "why", they would simply say, "Because you're you."This made me feel important through about three arrests- after that, it got lame rather quickly
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?So, one night about two years ago- it was a spring night, like this- I had the temporary use of a 1985 Bronco II As a person who's been walking everywhere the majority of the past five years, I was determined to make the most of this brief encounter with twentieth century technology.What did I do first?...I went to the liquor store, of course.I was a devoted lush, folks- show some respect.I managed to make it to the liquor store and back without getting pulled over- which was mucho bueno, as I had five bench warrants and absolutely NO business behind the wheel of a car..I was living in a studio apartment in Midvale, at the time- a city that borders my beautiful Cottonwood Heights.For those of you who don't know, Midvale is often referred to as "Little Mexico" by the snobbish, elitist, and let's face it, generally observant folks of Salt Lake Valley.If you're a Mexican Living in Utah, and you don't Live in Midvale, I'm pretty sure you burst into flames and die So, by the American interpretation of Mexico, which is based primarily on Tijuana, Midvale isn't the most sought after community in the area It doesn't suck, really- but you can certainly find some cheap apartments there- which is what I'd done..I headed into my basement studio to the sounds of Cletus Maximus flapping his gargantuan tail against the wall.Cletus and Chowdapuff were my roommates, and simply trying to comprehend the three of us all at once, would be enough to make most people chew an arm off Chowdapuff, is my Gay, German, Holocaust survivor Chihuahua- Cletus Maximus, is an American Bulldog, Pitbull mix, who came to me from the clouds of a great storm- I'm a White guy Living in little Mexico, who's constantly drunk, often wandering the streets screaming out Morrissey lyrics, with a homemade wreath on his door displaying Hillary and Haylie Duff playing pool We didn't get invited to a lot of parties
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?Yeah so, the moment I'm safely inside, I set the circus-sized bottle of rum on the counter, turn on some Morrissey, grab my "drinkin' cup" (a sturdy plastic cup that wouldn't break if I fell on it- this theory had been tested), and pour a nice tall glass of stupid I didn't have any furniture at the time- just one folding chair and a futon mattress which lay on the floor.The dogs and I shared the mattress, and the single chair was sufficient to accommodate all of my guests, of which I had zero throughout my entire years stay in Midvale.So, I helped myself to the folding throne- took a seat, and took a swig
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?Then- an addicts worst nightmare- I had NO SMOKES!!!...I quickly checked my pockets, my closet, the toilet, the drawers- I even looked accusingly at my dogs for a moment I knew what I had to do- I had only taken two gulps of the rum at that point- and with my genetics, I was certain, and I mean certain, that I could drive The silly thing is- had I not had access to a car, I would've walked the usual two blocks to the smoke shop around the corner.But, because I did have the car- I decided to drive down the street to the 7-11..I somehow managed to pull out, mere seconds before a patrol car decided to share the road with me. And as luck would have it- he wanted the spot directly behind me I don't know if the Bronco used to be registered to someone as shady as me- or if this asshole could just smell the guilty on me- but he followed me right into the 7-11 parking lot.I ast there in the car for a minute- pretending to be listening to a song- when in reality I was discreetly reciting every swear word I'd ever heard, and even making up a few new ones.I finally got out of the car, and as soon as that cop saw my face- on went the lights, and up went my hands
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?They of course arrested me. Not for DUI or any sort of moving violation, but simply for being me. Before I'd even been buckled into the patrol car, I asked very politely if I could use the 7-11 bathroom before they took me to booking.The immediate answer was "No." My bladder insisted that I try harder, so I even told the cops they could come with me- I wasn't shy, and I wasn't planning an escape, I just needed to piss They assured me that I'd be able to piss while I was getting processed in.They were right- but they didn't take into account, the only pisser available is the one in the "pit", and I would get to the pit until I'd spent an hour or so chained to a cement bench.They were all kinds of unmoved by, what I knew in my heart, was a sincere plea to pee
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?Now, when you've really gotta go- it doesn't help to have your hands cuffed behind your back, and the slowly turning wheels of justice on your mind I was squirming like a lunatic in a straight-jacket all the way to county jail.I had a brief moment of relief during my walk to the cement bench- and that was it It was around midnight by this time, and the guy directly across from me was fitted with a "spit-net" and not much else.He was wearing boxers, sort of, and for a short time, I kept my mind occupied with wondering what he'd done to get hauled in.The only other guy I could see, looked like your average roadie- tight jeans, long dirty blonde hair, a black Zenith t-shirt, and enough angst to fill an eighth grade gym class Considering my choices, I decided to talk with the roadie
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?The conversation started out with all the signs of normal jailhouse bullshit- "This fuckin' sucks, what are your charges, do you think you're gonna be staying long".Until I just couldn't take it anymore.I blurted out, "Dude, I gotta pee so bad I can taste it."Totally unphased, the roadie offers me his best advice, "Just fuckin' piss your pants, dude."..We both knew he was right.It was either that- or blow the fuck up.I looked around one more time- the cops were still busy making things go slowly- the naked spitting guy was drifting off- and the roadie was doing his best to scratch his nuts with his hands chained to a wall.So.I pissed I sat there warming my cheeks and hamstrings in a pool of my own urine for another twenty minutes I didn't feel good about it.But, I felt a lot less shitty about it than I had imagined I would....The intake officer had to frisk me in my pee pants- I had my mug shot taken with pee pants- I entered the dreaded "pit", sporting pee pants- I got my TB shot wearing pee pants- I tried to strike up conversations with my fellow criminals while rockin' the pee pants- for five long hours before I got dressed into my bright red quarantine garb, I was unabashedly working the county jail, in my pee pants Totally not the night I had planned?? |
