They Don't Make 'em Like That Anymore

I had one damn fine weekend. In fact, it's too good to blog about, because I need to keep some stuff for myself. However, I will give you readers one word to go on: moonshine.

Yep, I went to East Tennessee. Yes, I used to live in East Tennessee, but not the part I was in. I'm originally from Maryville, and I was in Almost Virginia. I thought I'd capitalize that for effect.

On the way back, I got the most bogus speeding ticket ever. I'm driving home, and it's around 3 a.m. eastern time. Well, sometimes it gets foggy, on account of the lakes and rivers and high altitude, so I had just gotten through some pretty dense fog, and I see an exit sign for UT. The italics are my thoughts. Keep in mind I'm sure not dumb enough to say this shit.

Aha, methinks, I'm in Knoxville. The speed limit must be 55, because that's what it is in all cities.

So I drive around 55-60, because it's Knoxville, so five over isn't going to hurt anyone tempered with mountain spring water and moonshine. And I can rag on East Tennesseans all I want because I used to live there. In fact, I was born in Knoxville. How do you like them apples? Soaked in alochol? Me too!

So I come around this corner, and I notice a cop car. Now, no one is as aware of his or her speed as I am when I know there's a cop just itching to pull someone over. So, even though I was only going 60ish, I hit the brake before I got to him (so he couldn't see me braking - that's an admission of guilt) and slowed down to 55ish.

He pulled out a little ahead of me, and I continued at this 55 rate. He drove next to me (in my blindspot no less) and then pulled behind me and turned on his lights.

Fuck. I wish this bastard would remove the stick from his ass and let me go. I need to get to Murfreesboro before I'm too tired to stay awake. Shit. Where do I pull over? Why doesn't Knoxville believe in shoulders anymore?.

He came over his SuperCop 5000 Loudspeaker (OK, maybe I made that up, but I bet it has a stupid name) and told me to keep driving until I could pull over.

Well, at this point, I'm really irritated, because I know he's really intent on giving me something I don't want if he's coming over his speaker system for God and the rest of I-40 to hear, and I've got my hazard lights on because I'll be damned if I'm getting a "Failure to Yield" added to this bitch, and I finally get to a small section of shoulder-like substance.

Mr. Copman gets out of his car and comes to my window saying I was going 60, and in my head I'm thinking he must've clocked me as soon as I came around the curve, but I'm still not seeing what the big drama is with 60 in a 55. I mean, hell, if I were trying to escape from prison, I could see the need to bust out the SuperCop 5000, but for 5 over? Is he shitting me?

Then he says it.

"The speed limit's 45."

What? 45? Yeah, on Gallatin Road near my parents' house the speed limit is 45, but this is I-40. And it's Knoxville for fuck's sake. Why in the bleeding hell would the speed limit be anything other than 55 like it is in every other city in the country?

I replied with something along the lines of being from out of town, which I'm sure he knew by my license plate from a county he thought was in area code 423. You know, it's kind of like 615, except none of the numbers are the same.

"We're on mandatory enforcement, so I have to cite you. I'm going to have to write you a citation."

Oh, so that's what it means to cite someone: write a citation. Do you think you can use parenthetical footnoting? All that ibid, sic crap just confuses me. And if your Works Cited page is wrong, that's coming off your grade, buddy.

"This is one of the governor's concerns. He's trying to reduce fatalities of construction workers, even when there's no construction."

Excuse me, did I wander into a press conference? Don't give me PR spin. I don't give a shit about the governor or how you HAVE to give me a ticket. Just write the damn thing and let me get back to driving. It's late, chief, and I have miles to go before I sleep. That's Robert Frost, by the way. Oh, and how in the hell is this a construction zone? No shoulder is stupid, but generally there's some kind of construction warning signs posted every two feet. And, for future reference, I can assure you that writing me this ticket has not saved any lives of construction workers who might just wander around the road on their days off.

So I gave him my license, and he asked what year my car was.

But don't you want to see my registration and proof of insurance? What if I'm driving an uninsured stolen car? Actually, I'd come off pretty good in that scenario, although someone would be really fucked.

"The governor wants to reduce highway fatalities over the holiday weekend, so BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH."

OK, dude, I get it. The governor wants to make money and have you tell the citizens how they can help. By the way, if the governor REALLY wanted to reduce fatalities, why is he depriving a couple hundred thousand people of health care? I mean, suppose some construction worker gets plowed by a semi. Who's paying for his health care? OK, I guess the semi driver would, but you can see my point here.

So he takes my license and spends forever writing my ticket, and I'm getting really annoyed now, because I just want to get home. He finally brings it back and hands me my copy and leaves. He mentioned some August court date, but it's Knoxville. Maybe I'll go if there's a UT game that weekend. I doubt there will be.

So Cop-o-rama drives away and I'm glad I didn't smart off because I do have a tail light out, and he could've added that if he really wanted to. Before I merge back onto 40 (tons of fun and really safe, by the way), I read the ticket.

Pacing.

Pacing?!

PACING?!

How in the hell do you pace someone if you're at a complete stop yourself? Now, he did pull out in FRONT of me, but that's hardly an effective method of pacing, not to mention he wasn't on the road long enough to get up to 60 to pace me at it. Now, yes, I was going around 55, which, according to this guy, was 10 over, so I was speeding even though I didn't realize it. But 60 is 15 over, and it's a different bracket of payment. He eyeballed me into a higher payment bracket. This is why most people hate most cops.

He fucked me, and he didn't even ask if it was good for me, too. I especially liked the part when he said he didn't want to do it but he had to. I guess it took him so long to write the ticket because he was jerking off to it.

I do have one other speeding ticket that I got three years ago, but that guy was nice. He was quick about it, too. This also took place at 3 a.m.

I merged back onto 40 and started obsessively looking for speed limit signs, which didn't take long. About half a mile up the road I saw one. Are you ready for this shit? Because this is the punchline - the true punchline - I can't make this shit up.

55

By the way, that font size is 55. Neat huh?

What a prick.