Interesting Search Phrases
Monday, March 30th, 2009- “i hope you’ll be a great person and not do that”
- brikenstock trey
- barker deep porno
More interesting phrases that were used to find Trey’s website.
Archive for March, 2009
Mine is the World’s Biggest Crank (long post warning)
Saturday, March 28th, 2009It pains me to watch the videotape.
(from the 25-year old officer’s dash cam, after some back and forth about whether or not NFL player Ryan Moats stopped or rolled a couple of red lights)
Officer Robert Powell: (Moats’ SUV) is not an emergency vehicle. You do not have the right to control the traffic.
Moats: All right … just go ahead and check my insurance so I can go ahead and go. If you’re gonna give me a ticket, give me a ticket. I really don’t care, just …
Powell: Your attitude says that you need (a ticket).
Moats: I don’t have an attitude. All I’m asking you is just to hurry up. Cause you’re standing here talking to me.
Powell: Shut your mouth and listen.
Moats: Shut my mouth? Is that how you talk to me, too?
Powell: Shut your mouth and listen. If you want to keep this going, I’ll just put you in handcuffs, and I’ll take you to jail for running a red light.
Moats: OK. All right.
Powell: I can do that.
Moats: OK.
Powell: State law says I can.
Moats: Yes, sir. Go ahead.
Powell: If you don’t settle down that’s what I’m gonna do.
Moats: Yes, sir.
Powell: All right, If you don’t settle down, your truck’s illegally parked – I’ll tow that as well.
Moats: Yes, sir.
Powell: OK, I can screw you over. I’d rather not do that. Your attitude will dictate everything that happens, and right now, your attitude sucks.
Moats: Yes, sir.
Powell: OK, I turned my red and blues on as you were going over the bridge …
Moats: You think I’m gonna stop when my wife’s mother is dying?
Powell: You are required to stop. What you’re doing does not matter. Red and blues, you have to stop. I can charge you with fleeing right now.
Moats: Yes, sir. …
Powell: I can take you to jail. I can tow your truck. I can charge you with fleeing.
Moats: Yes, sir, you can. I understand.
Powell: I can make your night very difficult.
Moats: I hope you’ll be a great person and not do that.
How many times can Moats say ‘yes, sir?’ How many times can he say ‘Ok?’ How often can he agree with the officer and still the officer lays out the myriad ways he can ‘screw’ Moats over? (yeah, a great conversation for a white officer who has stopped a car full of blacks). Or was it that the cop knew he had an NFL star on his hands and wanted to show what a man he was?
That entire exchange is nothing but a young punk with a hard dick.
Yes, he’s a cop. Yes, I’m a cop. But he and I are made from completely different cloth.
This happened a few days ago in Dallas. Moats was, with some of his family, rushing to a hospital where his mother-in-law was dying. With his flashers going, he ran some stop signs.
Illegal?
Absolutely. Completely illegal.
Worthy of a ticket? Absolutely fucking not.
If he’d rolled red lights without his flashers or without slowing down to check on-coming traffic, and if he’d stopped outside of a strip club, then yeah, write his ass. But that’s not what happened. Moats went to a hospital. He had his flashers on and while those don’t make a private car an emergency vehicle, that is standard and accepted practice for American drivers with emergencies.
How many clues can this cop miss?
So in the face of clue after clue after clue that this was legitimate, the officer decided to play King Cobra and detain Moats, whose mother-in-law died while this penny-ante panty-waist son of a bitch made sure he got his ticket written.
And, oh, by the way, the ticket was dropped. Why? Because it was a bullshit ticket. Circumstances and context point up the crap quotient of this ticket. Again, we’re outside a hospital, not a strip club or a grocery store or a damned brothel.
Now, in the officer’s defense (which makes my bowels hurt to have to do), a part of the beginning of the traffic stop was legit. He stopped Moats and immediately at least two people jumped out and came toward him.
I’ve been there and it’s fucking scary.
As an officer, you have no idea who these people are, no idea what they’re doing or why they’re coming at you. And more officers are hurt and killed in traffic stops than anything else we do. Remember…the first two officers killed last week in Oakland were murdered on a routine traffic stop. Speeding. Or failing to signal. Or running a red light.
So when the Dallas copper ordered them back in the car, I had no problem. Nor had I a problem with the fact that his gun was drawn at the beginning of the incident. But you get that thing put away quick when you understand you are not facing a deadly threat situation. Up until then, it was good tactics (if you can get past all the clues he missed that he should never have made the stop to begin with).
But after that, after the point at which everyone in the car tells him what’s going on, after he gets a face full of their obvious distress and emotion, the cop went Sarah Palin rogue, doing his own thing and stewing in his own sense of righteous.
There is a Thin Blue Line in law enforcement, a sense that One shall not speak ill of Another and to a degree, I understand that. Until you’ve stood in a kitchen and had a PCP junkie attack you, take your gun, and fight you for nearly 12 minutes, you have no conception of what most officers face everyday.
So I try to not criticize officers until I know exactly what they were facing. But sometimes, everything you need to see is right in front of you. In this case, it was all on the videotape.
Here’s something else: the officer had the SUV.
Get it? Even if it had been a righteous ticket, the officer had the SUV. They had to come back to it at some point. They weren’t going to walk home. They weren’t going to take a damned taxi. Was the SUV stolen? Could have been, but how many car thieves slow down for red lights and drive with their flashers on? The basic premise of auto theft is to NOT get caught; drawing attention makes getting caught more likely.
The officer should have let Moats and his family deal with their issue. Then, once that was done, he could have dealt with his issue with them.
But the traffic ticket doesn’t matter. Powell’s interaction with Moats doesn’t matter. A young cop, probably scared, trying to control a situation he created and which got out of hand damned fast, doesn’t matter. All those things are window dressing for the larger problems.
First: The Big Listen.
Almost everything we do as police officers hinges on what I call The Big Listen. You have to hear what comes out of people’s mouths. If you don’t, then everything else you try to do – arrests, citations, investigations – is just wasted time.
This cop didn’t listen to a single word Moats said. Nor did he listen when a hospital security guard and a nurse came out to explain the situation to him.
Everyone told him what was going on and he hunkered down and concentrated on writing that ticket.
Siege mentality. Everyone on the planet was telling him at that moment – and every moment since – that he’d screwed it up. I’d bet he felt bombarded with criticism and probably self-doubt and so he stuck to his metaphoric guns. There are officers who believe with absolute certainty there should never be any apologies or any backing up once they take a stand and that’s the stand he took.
Second: The Big Rule.
This is my biggest problem with the entire incident. That kid stood tall behind his badge and then hid behind the rules.
When questioned, he said he followed the rules and said he believed he acted appropriately. In other words, his hands were tied. There are rules and policies and procedures for just such an incident and he followed them to the letter.
In other other words, he gave over his situational judgment to something written down in a dusty manual.
Yeah, that’s a problem.
We want our officers making judgments and using common sense. We want them to take into account every bit of information that comes their way. We do not want them slavishly following every single rule that some suit wrote only after it went through ten or fifteen committees.
Said this kid’s chief, at a press conference: “(Powell’s) behavior, in my opinion, did not exhibit the common sense, discretion, the compassion that we expect our officers to exhibit.”
Common sense and discretion.
The chief went on to say, when asked what officers are trained to do in such a situation, that even someone with no police training should have known better than to do what Powell did.
“I don’t know how you train for these circumstances, other than to hire people with common sense and good people skills,” he said.
This kid in Dallas, scared to death by the can of crap he’d opened, chose to hide behind the rules rather than coming out and saying he’d screwed the pooch and apologizing.
I’ve been there. When things start to move so fast you can’t really control them. And it is incredibly difficult to stop events and do any sort of evaluation. Yet officers have to be able to stop the train, in a situation where there are no lives in jeopardy, and see if the train needs to be put on a different track.
This kid will never be a good officer. He needs to leave the profession and sell hotdogs at the ball park.
Do I say that based on this single incident? Based on a situation that got out of hand where he lacked common sense and made unwarranted threats of arrest? A situation that he didn’t have the life or career experience to stand up to?
No. I say this based on the fact that, after the incident, while the tape was still recording, he mentioned to another officer that he had ‘worded’ a report to justify a police chase he was involved in back in January.
Turns out this punk may have lied about how the pursuit began.
In other words, it was another situation that got out of control too quickly for him to fix. And rather than fixing it afterward, rather than talking to his command staff, he ‘worded’ a report. So when the shit was thick, his instinct was to lie rather than to solve the problem.
I do not like criticizing officers without all the information, but when you do this to Moats, and then you tell another officer that you wrote a report a certain way so as to hide certain facts, you need to get the fuck out. This kid is making all of us look bad. He is undermining everything I do on the street.
This kid, with his bullshit ‘I’m the boss and I’ll take you to jail and if it ain’t right I’ll just lie on my report,’ is making things more dangerous for me. The Thin Blue Line can’t – and shouldn’t – condone that kind of bullshit.
Turn in your badge and gun, you schlub, and grab some extra mustard for the people in section 312.
…uh…what?
Wednesday, March 18th, 2009Today, a whole pile of randoms. Enjoy.
“’I can’t catch a dui, but I can be one.’”
LuAnn, opining on what might be in my head when I mentioned wanting a wee taste of the whiskey after a nightmarish two hour on-line counseling session for my impending bankruptcy. I’ve run a bit dry on DUIs on patrol lately. This was her response.
***
“One way to lessen your expenses is to cut back on your dry cleaning.”
- and -
“Golf clubs should be purchased only after monthly necessities, such as rent and groceries, have been purchased.”
Advice from the two-hour, on-line counseling REQUIRED to file bankruptcy. With advice like this, hey, our economy will turn right around in no time.
***
“Do I have El Fucking Stupido written on my forehead?”
Said with a Spanish accent to a thoroughly white guy about exactly how stupid each thought the other might be. I half expected to see a man in blue tights with a red cape and ‘El Fucking Stupido’ emblazoned across his chest appear from a puff smoke.
***
“They’re slickery sometimes.”
A local video store employee, after I found a handful of porn DVD jewel cases stolen from her store while investigating a separate crime. I asked her to come talk to me and she offered this bit of wisdom about how the porn DVDs come back to the store occasionally. Eeeww.
***
“Yeah, we shot it.”
“But it was already dead.”
“Yeah.”
An officer, after discovering a polka-dotted goat, quite dead, asking a kid about he and his friends’ paintballing of said goat. He never got a decent answer as to why. Perhaps it was an existential reason. The goat had once been, the paintballing was, and the mopes believed in a universal co-reality of the two. Or maybe it was just fun to paintball a dead goat.
***
“Sonofabitchgoddamnitwhathefuckisthat…holycrapisthataused – ”
Me, upon reaching into a cupboard to retrieve stolen items and finding, instead, the suspect’s recently used condoms. I guess my question is, first, why would you keep used ones around and, second, if you were going to, why would you keep them in a cupboard?
CopStories: “This is my thumb…it goes in my butt.”
Saturday, March 7th, 2009(this is essentially what happened…although names have been deleted to protect those who should, by all rights, be publicly embarrassed…if you can dig it)
“Dispatch, show me security check this village.”
“10-4.”
And so I’m whistling along, blasting my squad stereo with the soundtrack to ‘Cowboy Bebop.’ It’s an anime TV show I have no clue about, but a friend loaned me the music and it’s brilliant. So I’ve got this stuff making my ears bleed and I’m checking this tiny hamlet at 2:30 this morning, and all is right with my tiny little world.
As I’m headed out of town, I notice some smoke plumes. I turn around to get closer.
It’s actually three smoke plumes and they’re pretty damned big.
“Dispatch, we’ve got some kind of fire. I can’t tell so I’ll be outta the car, taking a look.”
It’s way back in a cornfield that seems just about impossible to get to, so I climb out and start traipsing through the mud. And I mean muddy. Like monster truck muddy. Sinking down damn near to my ankles and having to walk the better part of an acre or two to get to the damned fire and oh, by the way, I had put on my ballistic vest so tight it was like a fucking corset so I couldn’t breath, plus I’ve got some adrenaline going ’cause it’s a HUGE fire and there might be a structure somewhere inside it.
When I finally get back to the car, I radio in and have my dispatcher contact fire dispatch.
“911 fire from police dispatch.”
Nothing.
“911 fire from police dispatch.”
Nothing.
Eventually, my dispatcher had to call the 911 dispatcher on the phone (yeah, that’s a rant for another time, I guess. 911 is too busy to answer the radio?), and 911 calls the fire department.
Three times.
Three fucking times.
While I’m waiting, watching a twenty mile an hour wind blow this fire all hither and yon, a guy who owns some of the land comes along – having heard me on the scanner – to see if it’s his land.
“Yeah, ain’t mine.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess,” I say.
“Yeah.” A pause. “Mine’s all peat.”
“Well, that’d burn for a while.”
“Yeah.” Another pause. “I guess 911 called the fire chief.”
“Really.” I’m getting a little amped up because I still don’t hear any sirens or see any flashing lights and this village is small enough you know it when a dog on the other side of town takes a crap.
“Yeah. They ain’t coming out,” he says.
“‘They’ being – ”
“The fire department.”
And this is where, suddenly, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 burns into my head. In that book, a dystopian look at where critical thought was headed in America in the 1950’s (how’s that for a little afternoon ‘lite’ reading?), there were firemen. But those firemen actually set fire to books, rather than putting the fires out.
“Not coming, huh?” I say.
“Yeah.” Another pause. “Guess it’s been burning since about 4 this afternoon.”
“Twelve hours.”
“Yeah.”
“I see. Why?”
“It’s on an island, see.”
I frown. “What is?”
“The fire. See, it’s a triangular patch of land and you got’chore railroad tracks on the one side. Then there’s this little waterway on another side and another little waterway on the third side. So that fire ain’t going anywhere.”
“Yeah, huh? Good thing there’s no wind,” I say as the wind blows my long, brunette locks.
(Okay, I made that last part up. But if I’d had hair, the twenty mile an hour wind would have been blowing it.)
He looks at me askance and drives away. So I tell dispatch no one’s coming out. Hell, if the people who live in the town don’t give a shit, I don’t either. That’s how I roll, baby.
But of course I stop at the fire department, and even though they aren’t going anywhere, all these fucking hillbilly volunteer firemen are standing around in their building…with their turnout gear on.
They’re not going anywhere, they’ve said, but they thought they’d dress up anyway!
So I’m standing there, shaking my head in wonder and wondering if, between the twelve of them they have a full set of fucking teeth, and one says to me, “Yeah, so I guess that means you gotta buy breakfast.”
I wanted to say, “No thanks, I’ll pass on your traditional breakfast of raw pig followed by Gramma’s moonshine followed by a healthy session of cow-tipping.” Instead, I climbed in my car, turned my ‘Cowboy Bebop’ back on, and drove to the middle of nowhere so I could do some primal scream therapy in private.
Freakin’ hillbilly firemen. God help me.
This is my thumb…and this is my butt…see how well they fit together….
Fancy Jack’s (…uh…what?)
Thursday, March 5th, 2009Me: “What’s Gentleman Jack’s?”
My friend: “It’s the ‘fancy’ version of Jack Daniel’s — charcoal mellowed twice, smoother, blah, blah, blah. Or as I like to say (when not around corporate types) ‘Whiskey for P*ssies!’”
…uh…what?
Monday, March 2nd, 2009“You still look the same…minus the hair.”
From a friend who I’ve recently reconnected with via Facebook. Still look the same?…minus the hair?…that good or bad?
Hear that dog whistle?
Sunday, March 1st, 2009Okay, here’s the thing: I fucking hate dog whistles.
Hang on, let me be more specific. I fucking hate political dog whistles.
I’m reading this screed this morning by a woman I went to high school with. She was goofy then and apparently she’s goofy now. It’s all about how Texas has the legal right to secede from the union and form its own nation, blah blah blah. It’s the standard, “Wouldn’t all us Texans be so much better with them ol’ Yankees?” routine that Texans so love. It’s a fun academic exercise, but not really anything more than that. I’ve been known to play it, too….
…when I’m drunk.
But she peppers her entire thing with, rather than humor that would make it fun, constant stabs at President Obama. Okay, I get it, there are people who can’t stand him, people who think he has ruined the country (pretty amazing feat since he’s only been in office a few damned weeks!), people who think ain’t no way no darkie oughta be the Prez’nit.
If that’s what you think, stand up and say it. Have the balls to freaking say it! Say what you believe, rather than couching it in political dog whistles.
See, the ultra right wing has coded language they use whenever they want to communicate with the tribes. It’s a politcal dog whistle, only the right wing can hear it.
B. Hussein Obama. That’s what she kept calling him.
Okay, first of all, the only right-wing whacko calling him that is Ann Coulter so this high school chum of mine (as opposed to shark chum) is listening to Mr. Ann Coulter for her information. Secondly, B. Hussein Obama is Mr. Coulter’s way of letting all the paranoids out there know that President Obama is, in fact, an Arab terrorist.
So here’s the thing: if you think he’s a terrorist, fucking say it. Don’t hide it behind coded language. Have the goddamned balls to stand up and say, “I think Barack Obama is a terrorist!”
Much like I’ll say, “W. is an intellectual creampuff.”
So there.
(now here’s the after-blog-rant question: is saying Mr. Coulter a political dog whistle, too, or just my way of saying, ‘Wow, look at her Adam’s Apple?’)
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