Just as my last shift was coming to a close, Officer Goldenchild and I were sent on a medical run. According to dispatch, there was a kid in the North end of the city who had gone into diabetic shock, and he needed Insulin fast. While en route, we were also told that this kid has a long history of violence. Whenever the medics revive him, he goes ballistic and tries to fight everyone in the room.
As the world’s strongest living human, this info did not faze me. I simply punched the gas harder in order to ensure that I was the first one on scene.
When I finally got to the kids apartment, his girlfriend opened the door and frantically motioned us inside.
“He’s in the back bedroom!” She screamed. “Please hurry.”
While jogging through the apartment, I took note of the huge pile of weights scattered about the residence. Judging by the vast assortment of well worn poundage chilling on the floor, I could tell that this dude liked to lift weights, a lot. Not usually something that I like to see from an angry violent kid.
After navigating past the iron, I entered the bedroom and found the kid lying glassy eyed and ridged underneath his covers. Though I’m not a doctor, it was pretty clear form his frozen face, and thousand-mile-stare, that he was in bad shape.
Quickly the medics threw down their gear and began to render aid. In a flash, tubes were pulled out, blood was drawn, and syringes were filled.
One of the medics, a huge swollen beast of a woman, grabbed my shoulder.
“I’ve dealt with this guy before,” she said. “He gets really pissed when he wakes up. Please make sure that I don’t get hit in the face.”
“Got it.” I told her as I clamped down tight on the dude’s arm.
While the medic tried to locate a good vein, I concentrated all of my considerable strength on keeping this kid secured. Using both hands, I grabbed the guys left wrist and pinned his arm next to his hip, while OFC Goldenchild, working on the other side of the bed, locked down the other arm. When we were ready, the medic took her needle and jammed the Insulin directly into the guys thirsty vein.
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!! I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU BITCH!!!” The dude screamed literally a split second after the medic pushed on the plunger.
“Hold still!” I yelled as the kid wrenched at his arms with crazy retard strength.
“AAAAAHHHHH!!! I’M GONNA KILL YOU!!!”
When the shot was completed the medical team backed away and gave the kid some room. After they were a safe distance away, I looked back at the kid and was amazed. I’d never seen a diabetic reaction and was shocked at what happened.
In a matter of seconds, the guy went from completely out of it, to fighting for his life. Then, just when I thought I was gonna have to Taser him, he relaxed, and went back to his usual, mild mannered self.
“AAAAHHH, AAAHhh, AAahhh, aaahhh.”
And right when he calmed down completely, and I relaxed, the kid farted…directly into my open mouth.
“BBBBRRRRTTTTT.”
It was the deepest, wettest, most sudden blast I have ever tasted. Instantly, I reeled back and dry heaved.
“Ohh man, sorry.” Was all the kid said before rolling over.
It was absolutely ridiculous, I had helped save this kid from certain death and he repays me with a smelly turd sandwich.
That’s just typical.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The Photo
About a month ago, The Warden and her sisters decided that it was time to get a family portrait done. It had been about 10 years, three marriages and several kids since the last one, and everyone wanted a professional looking picture of the relatives to put on their walls.
After much debate and a few scheduling conflicts, it was decided that we would get our photo taken last Saturday at the ass crack of dawn. Of course, I had no input on the time, place, photographer, or even what I was allowed to wear. My only orders were to be there on time, and not be drunk (Consider this last sentence obvious foreshadowing).
Last Friday, three weeks and six days after this decree was made, we had our first real kickball game. After finishing the game, and at least a fifth, several members of our team went over to the bar.
“Alright guys,” I said. “I can’t stay out all night. We have this family portrait thing tomorrow and I CANNOT get any drunker.”
“Okay.”
After that everything is blackness. The next thing I know The Warden is shaking me awake and my mouth feels like a drier version of the Sahara desert.
“Hurry up!” The Warden shouted at me. “My whole family is going to be waiting.”
“Guy, I got it.” Was the only response I could muster as I stumbled up the stairs and into the shower.
After a few minutes of knocking over shampoo bottles, defacing the shower curtain, and almost slipping to my death, it became clear that I was still super hammered. A ten out of ten on the drunk scale. I was screwed and I knew it.
Once I accepted my fate, I turned off the water and crawled into my clothes. Though my head was pounding, my stomach ached, and my breath smelled like I’d just finished a turd sandwich, I managed to follow The Warden out of the house and into the blazing hot sun.
“It must be about a million degrees out.” I thought to myself as I walked about in the 90 degree heat. Instantly, sweat began to pour from my forehead and boozed oozed form my pores. “Well, at least the photo’s will be inside.”
Wrong.
When we pulled up to my new Hell, AKA “The place we were taking the photos”, I began to weep. The Warden’s family had chosen to take our pictures outside…in a park…about a 10 minute walk from where we parked.
As I hiked down the gauntlet of misery that took us to our final destination, I was a wreck. I felt like I was gonna die. I was rapidly leaving “drunk” mode and heading towards “hung over”, and my stomach was pissed. Hot molten diarrhea sloshed back and forth in my abdomen with each step. Cramps riddled my being, and vomit climbed towards my throat.
I was a complete disaster. Sick beyond belief. When the photographer finally lined us up for pictures I could barely keep myself alive. Thoughts of suicide occupied my mind as the sun beat down on my weathered body.
Eventually, about twelve years after arriving at the park, the photos ended and I was allowed to go home. On the way back I swore never to drink again…ever.
An oath that lasted exactly 24 hours.
After much debate and a few scheduling conflicts, it was decided that we would get our photo taken last Saturday at the ass crack of dawn. Of course, I had no input on the time, place, photographer, or even what I was allowed to wear. My only orders were to be there on time, and not be drunk (Consider this last sentence obvious foreshadowing).
Last Friday, three weeks and six days after this decree was made, we had our first real kickball game. After finishing the game, and at least a fifth, several members of our team went over to the bar.
“Alright guys,” I said. “I can’t stay out all night. We have this family portrait thing tomorrow and I CANNOT get any drunker.”
“Okay.”
After that everything is blackness. The next thing I know The Warden is shaking me awake and my mouth feels like a drier version of the Sahara desert.
“Hurry up!” The Warden shouted at me. “My whole family is going to be waiting.”
“Guy, I got it.” Was the only response I could muster as I stumbled up the stairs and into the shower.
After a few minutes of knocking over shampoo bottles, defacing the shower curtain, and almost slipping to my death, it became clear that I was still super hammered. A ten out of ten on the drunk scale. I was screwed and I knew it.
Once I accepted my fate, I turned off the water and crawled into my clothes. Though my head was pounding, my stomach ached, and my breath smelled like I’d just finished a turd sandwich, I managed to follow The Warden out of the house and into the blazing hot sun.
“It must be about a million degrees out.” I thought to myself as I walked about in the 90 degree heat. Instantly, sweat began to pour from my forehead and boozed oozed form my pores. “Well, at least the photo’s will be inside.”
Wrong.
When we pulled up to my new Hell, AKA “The place we were taking the photos”, I began to weep. The Warden’s family had chosen to take our pictures outside…in a park…about a 10 minute walk from where we parked.
As I hiked down the gauntlet of misery that took us to our final destination, I was a wreck. I felt like I was gonna die. I was rapidly leaving “drunk” mode and heading towards “hung over”, and my stomach was pissed. Hot molten diarrhea sloshed back and forth in my abdomen with each step. Cramps riddled my being, and vomit climbed towards my throat.
I was a complete disaster. Sick beyond belief. When the photographer finally lined us up for pictures I could barely keep myself alive. Thoughts of suicide occupied my mind as the sun beat down on my weathered body.
Eventually, about twelve years after arriving at the park, the photos ended and I was allowed to go home. On the way back I swore never to drink again…ever.
An oath that lasted exactly 24 hours.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Monster
Last night, a few of us went to our favorite watering hole to hang out and have a few Ginger Ale’s. After downing a couple drinks and ogling a few ladies, we went outside and hit the bar’s outdoor volleyball court. About a half hour into our battle royal, a huge group of smokin’ hot super babes noticed the immense collection of prime man meat sweating it out on the sand, and decided to get in on the action.
As the night wore on, our once small game became a pretty decent collection of people, more than two thirds of which were ladies. After one particularly brutal game, I walked off the court in order to take a piss. Since the only bathroom was inside of the bar, I sat on the bleachers and grabbed my shoes.
While throwing on my kicks, I began to talk with the females watching the game. I joked with them about my insane skills, and they commented on my sick athletic prowess. After throwing on my first shoe I reached for the second and accidentally knocked it over. When I bent over to pick it up I saw the biggest furriest spider crawl out from inside of my overturned New Balance. It looked like the spider from Lord of the Rings, only bigger and with larger teeth.
Instantly I screamed, and leapt into the arms of the guy next to me.
“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
“Kill it! Kill it!” I cried as hot tears streamed down my face. “Please God kill it.”
“Dude, it’s just a spider.” One of the girls said with a look of disgust on her face. “What is your problem?”
My problem was that I hate spiders. Hate them the way that the French hate soap. I especially hate them when they’re twice as big as I am.
I tried to explain this to the startled crowd while I screamed and begged for them to kill my hairy attacker. But instead of helping me, they only laughed and pitied everything I am.
All of the social capital that I had spent the entire night building was gone. To these people I was a bitch. A scared little bitch. Which sucks, but it’s a lot better than not seeing the brute and having it lay huge spider babies in my foot.
As the night wore on, our once small game became a pretty decent collection of people, more than two thirds of which were ladies. After one particularly brutal game, I walked off the court in order to take a piss. Since the only bathroom was inside of the bar, I sat on the bleachers and grabbed my shoes.
While throwing on my kicks, I began to talk with the females watching the game. I joked with them about my insane skills, and they commented on my sick athletic prowess. After throwing on my first shoe I reached for the second and accidentally knocked it over. When I bent over to pick it up I saw the biggest furriest spider crawl out from inside of my overturned New Balance. It looked like the spider from Lord of the Rings, only bigger and with larger teeth.
Instantly I screamed, and leapt into the arms of the guy next to me.
“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
“Kill it! Kill it!” I cried as hot tears streamed down my face. “Please God kill it.”
“Dude, it’s just a spider.” One of the girls said with a look of disgust on her face. “What is your problem?”
My problem was that I hate spiders. Hate them the way that the French hate soap. I especially hate them when they’re twice as big as I am.
I tried to explain this to the startled crowd while I screamed and begged for them to kill my hairy attacker. But instead of helping me, they only laughed and pitied everything I am.
All of the social capital that I had spent the entire night building was gone. To these people I was a bitch. A scared little bitch. Which sucks, but it’s a lot better than not seeing the brute and having it lay huge spider babies in my foot.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Bathroom Follies
As my lack of recent updates may suggest, this week was super busy. Summer is officially upon America’s greatest state, and per usual, the hot weather has brought the crazies out in droves.
A few nights ago, at about 4AM, I finally got a rare period of quiet. After catching up on my paperwork, I drove to the back of a vacant business district and took a much needed potty break.
Once I ensured that the coast was clear, I parked my car behind one of the buildings and walked to the dumpster. It was the perfect spot to piss. The place was desolate, completely void of people. There were no lights behind the building and the dumpster was set in the very back corner of the parking lot. I was completely hidden, and free to do my business.
As soon as I started to piss, I heard a scratching noise to my left. Using my free hand, I clicked on my flashlight and lazily investigated the source of the disturbance.
BOOM!!!
Instantly, the dumpster erupted with an explosion of movement and sound. Without thinking I let go of my uncoiled hose, yard saled my flashlight, and screamed like an 8 year old girl. As I stood there in a fighting stance, gasping for air, a family of raccoons climbed out of the dumpster and peered at my urine soaked silhouette.
Apparently, the furry little scavengers had been rooting through the trash just as I arrived. When I turned on my flashlight, the sudden brightness had terrified them and sent them scurrying for cover.
After taking this all in, I reeled back my wiener and tried to wring the vast amounts of piss out of my uniform. Knowing that next time I go to pee, I’ll have to be a whole lot more careful.
A few nights ago, at about 4AM, I finally got a rare period of quiet. After catching up on my paperwork, I drove to the back of a vacant business district and took a much needed potty break.
Once I ensured that the coast was clear, I parked my car behind one of the buildings and walked to the dumpster. It was the perfect spot to piss. The place was desolate, completely void of people. There were no lights behind the building and the dumpster was set in the very back corner of the parking lot. I was completely hidden, and free to do my business.
As soon as I started to piss, I heard a scratching noise to my left. Using my free hand, I clicked on my flashlight and lazily investigated the source of the disturbance.
BOOM!!!
Instantly, the dumpster erupted with an explosion of movement and sound. Without thinking I let go of my uncoiled hose, yard saled my flashlight, and screamed like an 8 year old girl. As I stood there in a fighting stance, gasping for air, a family of raccoons climbed out of the dumpster and peered at my urine soaked silhouette.
Apparently, the furry little scavengers had been rooting through the trash just as I arrived. When I turned on my flashlight, the sudden brightness had terrified them and sent them scurrying for cover.
After taking this all in, I reeled back my wiener and tried to wring the vast amounts of piss out of my uniform. Knowing that next time I go to pee, I’ll have to be a whole lot more careful.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
The Gift That Keeps on Giving
Last night, TheWarden and I got to spend a rare night alone. After doing out for dinner, watching a movie, and feverishly bed wrestling, we went downstairs and crashed on the couch.
When I got up to check my email, TheWarden playfully grabbed my wallet off the coffee table. “Why do you have so much crap in here?” She said while opening the monstrosity and looking inside. “I mean, look at this thing!”
There’s no doubt that my wallet is a mess. Full of tons of crap that I probably don’t need, yet am far too lazy to throw out. As I typed away on my computer TheWarden began pulling out all of these items and separating them into Keep/Throw away piles.
“What’s this?” She said as she pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I don’t know,” I said absently, while typing.
“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!” She suddenly screamed. “AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!”
Without even looking I knew that one of my buddies had planted something horrendous.
“Seriously, what is this?!” TheWarden shrieked.
When she showed me the picture I about died. The thing was a still shot from the grossest, most obscene website on this planet. A picture of three sweaty old men having a big gay threesome.
After assuring my wife that I am not gay, and do not like to see old naked balls, I grabbed the picture in disgust. “I’ll take care of this,” I said.
Oh, and by “take care of this”, I mean putting it in the first unattended wallet I find.
When I got up to check my email, TheWarden playfully grabbed my wallet off the coffee table. “Why do you have so much crap in here?” She said while opening the monstrosity and looking inside. “I mean, look at this thing!”
There’s no doubt that my wallet is a mess. Full of tons of crap that I probably don’t need, yet am far too lazy to throw out. As I typed away on my computer TheWarden began pulling out all of these items and separating them into Keep/Throw away piles.
“What’s this?” She said as she pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I don’t know,” I said absently, while typing.
“AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!” She suddenly screamed. “AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!”
Without even looking I knew that one of my buddies had planted something horrendous.
“Seriously, what is this?!” TheWarden shrieked.
When she showed me the picture I about died. The thing was a still shot from the grossest, most obscene website on this planet. A picture of three sweaty old men having a big gay threesome.
After assuring my wife that I am not gay, and do not like to see old naked balls, I grabbed the picture in disgust. “I’ll take care of this,” I said.
Oh, and by “take care of this”, I mean putting it in the first unattended wallet I find.
The Blood Drive
I freaking hate blood drives. Loathe them with all my being. Though it may sound like a filthy-whore communist thing to say, I assure you, it’s true. It’s not the needles, or the blood, or even the part about helping other people that bothers me (although that does piss me off), it’s all the shit that happens to me whenever I try to do it.
Every time my blood has been borrowed or tested, something obscenely horrible happens. Weather it’s accidentally stabbing every last one of my veins, or simply accusing me of being HIV positive, nothing ever seems to run smooth.
This week, I was in briefing when one of my sergeants brought up the Red Cross. According to him, the organization is super low on blood and is in town looking to harvest some life-force. While not formally a part of this campaign, my department was strongly suggesting that we make a liquid donation.
The last time I was asked to give blood was in the academy. One day, the Red Cross rolled into town and set up shop in our gym. After a particularly brutal PT session, a group of us were “voluntarily” sent to the donation chamber. Once in the gym, we were handed a huge pre-screening questioner and told to fill it out.
As I looked over my form I began to laugh. Because the agency didn’t want to get tainted blood, the pre-screening form asked several eye opening in depth questions. Initially, these questions were normal, asking things like, “Do you have any STD’s” or “Have you gotten a tattoo in the last year?”
But as the form goes on, the questions began to get crazy. While question 1 had been something bland like, “Do you weigh enough to give blood”, by question 10 it was, “Have you ever had sex in exchange for drugs?”, and “Have you ever been filmed having sex a group of guys?”
Towards the end of the form things were totally out of control. Nothing was off limits. Each question detailing an act more depraved than the one previous.
Question 30: “Have you ever had sex with five guys and a penguin?”
Question 31: “Have you ever done cocaine while someone shits on your chest?”
Question 32: “Have you had sex with a penguin while it shits on someone’s chest that’d doing cocaine?”
By the time I was done, my buddies and I were in tears. The form was funnier than anything we had ever read. After exchanging some accusations with the other guys, I stood up and met with the screener. Briefly she looked over the form. “Alright, everything looks good,” she began. “No STD’s, no drugs.” But then she paused. “Uh oh, tell me about this trip.”
In the muddle of the questioner, lost in amongst the zillion questions about evil and debauchery, was a single question about traveling out of the country.
Me: “Six months before the academy, I went to a wedding in Mexico.”
Lady: “Oh, well I’m afraid that I can’t let you give blood.”
As I walked away from the table a rejected donor, all of the guys in my academy looked at me in shock. Since they couldn’t hear my conversation with the screener, they had no idea why I was rejected. Instantly, they looked down at their tests and began to exchange guesses.
“You participate in one drug fueled gay orgy and suddenly your blood isn’t good enough.” Was all I said before walking out the door.
Every time my blood has been borrowed or tested, something obscenely horrible happens. Weather it’s accidentally stabbing every last one of my veins, or simply accusing me of being HIV positive, nothing ever seems to run smooth.
This week, I was in briefing when one of my sergeants brought up the Red Cross. According to him, the organization is super low on blood and is in town looking to harvest some life-force. While not formally a part of this campaign, my department was strongly suggesting that we make a liquid donation.
The last time I was asked to give blood was in the academy. One day, the Red Cross rolled into town and set up shop in our gym. After a particularly brutal PT session, a group of us were “voluntarily” sent to the donation chamber. Once in the gym, we were handed a huge pre-screening questioner and told to fill it out.
As I looked over my form I began to laugh. Because the agency didn’t want to get tainted blood, the pre-screening form asked several eye opening in depth questions. Initially, these questions were normal, asking things like, “Do you have any STD’s” or “Have you gotten a tattoo in the last year?”
But as the form goes on, the questions began to get crazy. While question 1 had been something bland like, “Do you weigh enough to give blood”, by question 10 it was, “Have you ever had sex in exchange for drugs?”, and “Have you ever been filmed having sex a group of guys?”
Towards the end of the form things were totally out of control. Nothing was off limits. Each question detailing an act more depraved than the one previous.
Question 30: “Have you ever had sex with five guys and a penguin?”
Question 31: “Have you ever done cocaine while someone shits on your chest?”
Question 32: “Have you had sex with a penguin while it shits on someone’s chest that’d doing cocaine?”
By the time I was done, my buddies and I were in tears. The form was funnier than anything we had ever read. After exchanging some accusations with the other guys, I stood up and met with the screener. Briefly she looked over the form. “Alright, everything looks good,” she began. “No STD’s, no drugs.” But then she paused. “Uh oh, tell me about this trip.”
In the muddle of the questioner, lost in amongst the zillion questions about evil and debauchery, was a single question about traveling out of the country.
Me: “Six months before the academy, I went to a wedding in Mexico.”
Lady: “Oh, well I’m afraid that I can’t let you give blood.”
As I walked away from the table a rejected donor, all of the guys in my academy looked at me in shock. Since they couldn’t hear my conversation with the screener, they had no idea why I was rejected. Instantly, they looked down at their tests and began to exchange guesses.
“You participate in one drug fueled gay orgy and suddenly your blood isn’t good enough.” Was all I said before walking out the door.
Big Girls Don't Cry
For the record, I hate writing tickets. Unless I see someone blow through a red light, or catch them driving down the road with a fifth of Beam in one hand, and their wiener in the other, I could honestly care less. Plus, once I stop someone, I know that I’ll have to listen to them piss and moan about how “evil” and “mean” I am.
At about 10:00PM last night I was heading to 7-11 in order to ensure that there was no crime by the slurpee machine, when this chick passed me at like 20 over. Though it may be hard to believe that a female driver would be so reckless on the road, I assure you, this is a true story.
I was torn. On one hand I was really in the mood for a frosty cool slurpee, but on the other, I was really low on tickets and this was a pretty simple stop.
After a quick debate I turned around and stopped the car. When I walked up to the window I saw the chick bawling uncontrollably.
“Damnit.”
After a few agonizing minutes, the lady calmed herself down enough to lower her window. When I finally got her information, I told her that she was speeding. Instantly, the skank began to act like I had raped her newborn children. She shrieked and wailed inconsolably. Through her massive tears she told me that she was speeding because her car was about to break down and she wanted to get home.
Now, lots of people ask me if I let crying girls off with a warning. My short answer is no. I’m not going to give every chick that speeds a break just because they’re too much of a pussy to accept their ticket. I mean, after all, if I never wrote bad female drivers tickets, I wouldn’t be able to write anyone.
When I returned to the lady’s car, I handed her the skid. Instantly, her tears vanished and her once unbearable grief turned to rage. “Oh, thanks a lot,” she yelled. “My car’s not working and you give me this!”
As she continued to berate me I smiled. This fat hag had tried the oldest trick in the book, and I had called her bluff. All she had to do was show me her boobs and she would have been on her way.
At about 10:00PM last night I was heading to 7-11 in order to ensure that there was no crime by the slurpee machine, when this chick passed me at like 20 over. Though it may be hard to believe that a female driver would be so reckless on the road, I assure you, this is a true story.
I was torn. On one hand I was really in the mood for a frosty cool slurpee, but on the other, I was really low on tickets and this was a pretty simple stop.
After a quick debate I turned around and stopped the car. When I walked up to the window I saw the chick bawling uncontrollably.
“Damnit.”
After a few agonizing minutes, the lady calmed herself down enough to lower her window. When I finally got her information, I told her that she was speeding. Instantly, the skank began to act like I had raped her newborn children. She shrieked and wailed inconsolably. Through her massive tears she told me that she was speeding because her car was about to break down and she wanted to get home.
Now, lots of people ask me if I let crying girls off with a warning. My short answer is no. I’m not going to give every chick that speeds a break just because they’re too much of a pussy to accept their ticket. I mean, after all, if I never wrote bad female drivers tickets, I wouldn’t be able to write anyone.
When I returned to the lady’s car, I handed her the skid. Instantly, her tears vanished and her once unbearable grief turned to rage. “Oh, thanks a lot,” she yelled. “My car’s not working and you give me this!”
As she continued to berate me I smiled. This fat hag had tried the oldest trick in the book, and I had called her bluff. All she had to do was show me her boobs and she would have been on her way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
