Today, a motorcycle-straddled cop set up a speed trap in front of my house. I was very bothered by this for two reasons:
1. I hate (most) cops
2. I hate cops on motorcycles
I’ve hated cops most of my adult life, and the motorcycle clause was a fast addendum. Six years ago, I had just pulled up to the curb in front of my house after a long day at work. Unaware of the cop who had been trailing me the whole way down Brookline Boulevard, I casually opened my car door, which in turn slammed into the side of his motorcycle, which he had idled on the sidewalk.
So before chastising me for me speeding, this old white-haired popo screamed at me for “nicking” his crappy cop cycle.
I dished out my usual cop hate-tinged sass (seriously, it’s a wonder I haven’t been night-sticked by now) and then pushed my way past him. ”
And to top it all off, you parked your car facing the wrong way!”
Oh fucking well, dickham.
Henry watched the whole thing from the sidelines, having returned home from work right behind me, and it’s still brought up occasionally.
I wanted to pelt expired foodstuffs at the cop today, but Henry was very serious about protecting the cop-douche, like he’s the one-man secret service of the police department; protection for our supposed protectors.
“And to make it even worse, he has a MUSTACHE,” I said with disgust and a crinkled nose as I sulked near the front door.
“So now you hate people with mustaches too?” Henry asked, annoyed.
“No, just cops with mustaches.” I really have to spell it all out for him.
(Although sometimes I hate mustachioed convenience store clerks.)
“See,” Henry continued from the kitchen, “this is why people think you’re a serial killer. You have a serial killer mindset.
” Why, because my hate is based on very specific criteria? I’m just very organized with my discrimination, is all.