Gut Rumbles
 

December 29, 2004

guilt instinct

I can't figure out where the hell the permalinks are on this site, so you may have to scroll down to find the WTF??? post. Read it. That one brought back unpleasant memories.

I've had the police or members of the Sheriff's Department show up at my door numerous times over the past three years. Usually, they came to deliver another court order from my bloodless cunt ex-wife, but a couple of times they just wanted to ask me "a few questions."

Why is it, that even when you KNOW that you haven't done anything illegal, the sight of a cop at the door and the thought of answering a "few questions" makes your blood run cold? It'll scare the living shit out of you--- or at least it will ME--- until you learn that they aren't there to haul you off to jail.

Bejus! Once, one of my neighbors reported his lawn mower stolen and the cops dropped by to ask me if I saw anything unusual at his house the day of the theft (the mower later was found in the woods behind my neighbor's house where his son and some friends hauled it off for who-knows-why. The son got his ass fried for that.). I almost pissed my pants while I told them that I didn't notice anything.

Another time, two officers (one male and one female) showed up at my door in a pouring rain to ask questions about another neighborhood crime. I was drinking beer at the time, but I invited them inside (which I usually DON'T do when cops show up at my door). I wasn't going to make ANYBODY stand outside in that rain.

They were investigating a complaint about some kid on a motorcycle racing through the neighborhood. I was happy to help them. "Yeah, I know the little shit," I said. "His name is Dwayne and he lives in that house across the street two doors down from me. He's got a rice-burner bike, a Yamaha I think, and he's gonna kill himself or somebody else with the way he rides it around here. Maybe you can put the fear of God into him, because his daddy sure won't." I had talked to Dwayne's father about that bike and he basically told me to go piss up a rope.

The guy cop was intrigued by my guitars--- I think I had three or four of them in my living room at the time. "Do you play?" he asked.

If anybody else but a cop had asked that question, I would have delivered a really smart-ass answer. ("No, I don't play. I thought the things were golf clubs when I bought them. Heh. Live and learn.") But I said, "Yeah. I play a little."

"Me, too," replied the cop. "That one is a Martin, isn't it? That's one fine guitar."

I offered to let him play it, I offered them both some coffee and I was as polite as I could be. When they refused my hospitality, thanked me for my help and left, I breathed a sigh of relief. I don't know why, but that was my gut reaction.

I think I get Badge Fever when cops come to visit me. I feel guilty even when I'm NOT. I don't think I could pass a lie detector test. They'd ask me my name, I'd answer truthfully and the needles would go spinning off the page as if I were lying my ass off.

I wouldn't make a good criminal. I have too much guilt instinct.

Comments

Side effect of the fact that laws are so complicated that almost anyone can be charged with someting if the authorities want to bother.

Posted by: Mark on December 29, 2004 12:10 PM

The sheriff's deputy who showed up at my door, and who told me he had a warrant for my arrest before he bothered to establish my identity, was in plainclothes.

But the first thing that came into my head when he said it was, "You got the wrong guy." So I asked what was the name on the warrant, and then I showed him my driver's license.

If your guilt instinct means you wouldn't make a good criminal, I wonder what my instinct says about me...

Posted by: McGehee on December 29, 2004 12:21 PM

http://www.juggernuts.com/comments.php?id=2476_0_1_0_C the link

Posted by: Ron on December 29, 2004 12:28 PM

Y'know, there's a special place in hell reserved for people who complain to the cops about young men on crotch rockets (and typically never say a word about old farts on Harleys).

The whole POINT of being young and stupid is, well, to be young and stupid and enjoy it.

Posted by: Mr. Lion on December 29, 2004 12:45 PM

Mr. Lion, I disagree. If Dwayne wanted to go kill himself on that bike, that was fine with me. But when he almost ran over Quinton one day, I went to talk to his daddy.

When daddy told me essentially what YOU said in your comment, I replied, "Does he have good tires? Are they expensive? I'm just asking because he may have to buy two new ones if he ever pulls that shit again when my boy is playing in the street."

I kept a loaded .22 target pistol right by the door for two weeks after that incident. Young and stupid was gonna end up in the ditch with his tires shot out if he came roaring by MY house again.

Young and stupid is one thing. A menace to civilized society is another.

Posted by: Acidman on December 29, 2004 12:55 PM

You're far kinder than I would have been, A-man.

Were that my kid, it would have been #7 birdshot. Won't kill him, but it'll fuck up his bike just fine.

Posted by: Jay G. on December 29, 2004 03:38 PM

Well, as they say, context is key. If he nearly hit your son, then the kid is a fool, and it's ultimately the father's fault. As whipping the shit out of the kid will land you in jail, I suggest doing so to the father.

As for shooting at kids for doing silly things, well, that's just plain silly. The judge would eat you alive.

Posted by: Mr. Lion on December 29, 2004 03:42 PM

A-Man -- Just click on the comments. That'll bring up the link you want.

Posted by: Omnibus Driver on December 29, 2004 05:53 PM

If this son of a bitch is running a motorcycle at my son, that's assault with a deadly weapon.

I have every right in the world to grab my gun to prevent such an assault, and I doubt any jury would convict me.

Think about it: How many other people in the neighborhood has this kid "buzzed"? How many witnesses could you get to testify as to this kid's recklessness and danger to the community?

Of course, this is tempered with having grown up in a cop household where my DAD once positioned the family Buick so that he could RAM the young yuppie SOB in the new BMW (that mommy and daddy bought him) who was racing down our residential street at 60+ MPH...

Posted by: Jay G. on December 30, 2004 09:38 AM
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