Hardly A Bleak-end

Why is it that when I have weekends off (which comes around only four times a year) my itinerary is filled weeks beforehand? Today my wife's former college roommate is coming for dinner with her family. If everything goes according to plan, the kids will play together, the wives will gab about whatever you women gab about, and Scott and I will drink Captain Morgan and Coke while playing PlayStation 2. Nice!

On Sunday, my cousins and uncles will be attending Philadelphia Park to bet on the ponies. Hopefully, I will do as well as my first time, when I won ninety bucks! On Sunday night, the X-Men will face the Bad Land Boys on the ice at 7:40pm. A win will put us above .500, and assure us some endorsement deals. "Lectric Shaaaaave!"

He Speaks With A List

Yeah, I'm still pissy. Last night's hour of playing Mortal Kombat: Deadly Alliance hasn't alleviated my stress, so I am looking into other means of relaxation. To wit:

Top Ten Ways I Am Dealing With Work-Related Stress

10. Porno, porno, porno!

9. Shooting hippies (CUG approved).

8. Analyzing why Carson Daly is so popular.

7. Ironing out the bugs of my own personal Death Star.

6. Writing cologne-scented love letters to Uber, SK, Pandy, Linda, GunnNutt, Doris, and anyone else who may give me the time of day.

5. Blaming Karl Rove for my work-induced anxiety.

4. Trying to write the lyrics to REM's "It's the end of the world as we know it" without visual aids.

3. Watching "Taxi Driver" and comparing Travis Bickle's dementia to mine.

2. Playing "Whack-a-Mole" on Cindy Crawford's face.

. . . And the number one way I am dealing with work-related stress:

Straining my eyes searching for cartoon cleavage. Mmm . . . Lois Griffin!

The Great Depression

My mother is a fish.

I have crossed the great divide from anger to all-out depression. Hell, I'm now quoting William Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying," the most depressing novel in all of literature. To be honest and frank with you, I can't get past yesterday's verbal shoot-out with my sergeant. Against my best friend's advice, I showed up to work - primarily because I have this overwhelming urge to do the right thing. Calling out sick because I'm pissed is wrong.

I did see Partner #1 as she was about to go home - she doesn't work the overnight shift anymore; working with me sent her away screaming - and for the first time in years, even she couldn't cheer me up. What really scared me is that she told me she has never seen me like this. Swell. I must be approaching Kurt Cobaterritoryroy.

At this point, I just want to get promoted and get the hell out of this damned district. Until then, I don't think I'll ever be right.

Serenity Now!

There's not enough duct tape in the world . . .

Some people say that blogging is therapeutic. They are probably right, but I am suffering through a dilemma. Post about the worst night I have ever had in eleven years as a police officer, or hold my tongue and not write anything I may later regret.

Ahh, who am I kidding, we all know what I'm gonna do.

To paraphrase Kevin Costner in Bull Durham, "F**k this f**king game!" As predicted, I was on the wagon last night, and it actually started out fairly well: my partner and I arrested some toad for beating up his pregnant girlfriend. Whoo hoo! Court time! After that, it pretty much went downhill. When you arrest someone in Philadelphia, the process is so wrought with wasted effort that it is a wonder cops can get anything done. The prisoner is transported to the pertinent detective division, searched, and placed in a cell. The arresting officers then proceed to the detectives to complete the mounds of paperwork. Again, this takes time. By the time we were finished, we had spent almost two hours on this job, all told from start to finish.

Usually, an arrest makes the supervisors happy. Welcome to my district, the mythical Land of Oz. The only thing that concerned our sergeant was our time at the division. Naturally, he thought we were goofing off, wasting time inside instead of patrolling. Nothing could be further from the truth, but since he hates my partner, I get some of the bile run-off. Hooray. When we get back to HQ, he signs our patrol log, and asks us when we will become available for assignments. We said as soon as we finished the paperwork. Unfortunately, we were due to pick up prisoners in a half hour, so we figured we better take a lunch, lest we miss our chance.

As we were sitting down and ordering some grub, our sergeant asks our "status." Remember, we just gave this guy an arrest, making him look great for the captain. God forbid we ask for (our entitled, by contract) lunch. My partner tells radio that we are available, and give us lunch. Soon after, we go to the prison to pick up our daily toad. The corrections officers tell us that they aren't going to let us inside until at least 7am! (We finish up at 7:30.) This is no good. I call our inside supervisor, and ask her advice on what to do. I tell her I don't mind staying, but I better see some O.T. out of it if it is deserved. She calls our sergeant, and he tells us to forget the prisoner, and day work will handle it. Keen!

Notice the time for this paragraph: At 5am, radio dispatches an alarm at the bottom of the district. We answer up, and go to the house. The resident meets us outside, and we walk through the home, checking for signs of an intruder. There are none, and after getting the resident's information, we leave. It is now about 5:20am. My partner's lunch didn't agree with him, so we stopped at a restaurant so he could, um, poo. I never told radio, because we finished the alarm job so quickly. What would five more minutes hurt, since there are no pending assignments? At 5:25am, the sergeant gets on the air and asks our "status." Un-be-friggin-lievable! We have been on the assignment for 25 minutes, and he's badgering us already??? WTF???!!! My partner, who has now had it, says:

"Radio, don't you have us out on this alarm?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Well, that's our status, ma'am."

Okay, he was a little wise, but he gave everyone the proper information. A second later, the lieutenant from the adjoining district rants on the air, "Radio, tell the wagon that that was an insufficient response!" He's kidding, right? My partner again tells radio, "Make it false, radio, we are back." Nothing like being embarrassed by a supervisor who doesn't even work in your district!!! Immediately after this exchange, our sergeant orders us to meet him on the street. Here's how we were greeted:

"What the f**k is the problem with you two?!!!"

Thanks, sarge, real professional. He then proceeds to berate and insult us, while screaming at the top of his lungs for everyone to see. Here's some samples of what this lunatic told us:

"You two are the biggest bums in the district!" (Yet we just gave him an arrest, and answered every call we were given - which is a rarity in my squad, believe me.)

"Wyatt, you are such a crybaby! Sometimes you have to work a little overtime on this job." (I wholeheartedly agree. I just wanted to get paid for it, and that doesn't always happen. When I told him that I had to make sure my four-year old gets to school on time, he again called me a "baby." Nice. And to think I invited this man and his wife in my home for my son's christening!)

"Everyone is staying until daywork comes out of roll call, and if anyone complains, I'm telling them it's your fault!" (Pretty petty, boss. Like street cops can hold people over. Yeah, the guys will buy that one.)

As terrible as this experience was, the kicker occurred as my partner was leaving for the day. After saying goodbye to the sergeant (with tongue planted firmly in cheek) the sergeant called after him: "Hey, no hard feelings, huh?"

Not at all, sergeant. Not at all. God, I hate this job.

P.S. - Sorry for the powerfully unfunny rant. I promise to post something better when my blood pressure goes down . . . assuming it does.

Quiz Time, Guys!

I NEVER post internet forwards, but this one was too funny to pas up. Hat tip to Uncle Ray.

Are you an unreconstructed, right-on, rogue male? Or a delivery boy of the new male order? Are you a man or a louse? Find out below.

1) In the company of females, intercourse should be referred to as . . .

a. lovemaking
b. screwing
c. the pigskin bus pulling into tuna town.

2) You should make love to a woman for the first time only after you've both shared . . .

a. your views about what you expect from a sexual relationship
b. your blood-test results
c. five tequila slammers

3) You time your orgasm so that . . .

a. your partner climaxes first
b. you both climax simultaneously
c. you don't miss SportsCenter

4) Passionate, spontaneous sex on the kitchen floor is . . .

a. healthy, creative love-play
b. not the sort of thing your wife/girlfriend would ever agree to
c. not the sort of thing your wife/girlfriend need ever find out about

5) Spending the whole night cuddling a woman you've just nailed is . . .

a. the best part of the experience
b. the second best part of the experience
c. $100 extra

6) Your girlfriend says she's gained five pounds in the last month. You tell her that it is . . .

a. no concern of yours
b. not a problem, she can join your gym
c. a conservative estimate

7) You think today's sensitive, caring man is . . .

a. a myth
b. an oxymoron
c. a moron

8) Foreplay is to sex as . . .

a. appetizer is to entree
b. primer is to paint
c. a line is to an amusement park ride

9) Which of the following are you most likely to find yourself saying at the end of a relationship?

a. "I hope we can still be friends."
b. "I'm not in right now, please leave a message at the beep."
c. "Welcome to Dumpsville. Population, YOU."

10) A woman who is uncomfortable watching you masturbate . . .

a. probably needs a little more time before she can cope with that sort of intimacy
b. is uptight and a waste of time
c. shouldn't have sat next to you on the bus in the first place

Evaluating the results: If you answered "a" more than 7 times, check in your pants to see if you really are a man. If you answered "b" more than 7 times, check into therapy, you're more than a little confused. If you answered "c" more than 7 times, "YOU DA MAN!"

Stupid Questions

How can some Democrat politicians force a Republican-controlled Senate to hold closed-door hearings about the origin of the Iraq War? In 2005, the Dems shouldn't be able to force Republicans to zip their flies, let alone do anything else. Hey, GOP! You guys are in power. Start acting like it!

Can someone pull a Montgomery Brewster and have voters choose "None of the Above" in the New Jersey gubernatorial race?


"None of the Above" indeed!

When's Pandy coming back? It's been almost two weeks, and her regular readers miss her.

"Septic" Strike

For those who haven't heard, the city of Philadelphia is now in Day 3 of a crippling mass transit strike. SEPTA (the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority) drivers, as usual, are walking the picket lines and holding my town hostage. I say "as usual" because it seems that SEPTA strikes (or threatens to do so) every year. The last work stoppage in 1998 lasted over 40 days.

I have little sympathy for SEPTA - which is universally regarded as the worst (and most expensive) mass transit system in the nation - primarily because police officers are forbidden by law to strike . . . and we usually get screwed more than Paris Hilton.

Which brings me to my beloved employer. Every night since the walkout, the top brass have been ordering officers to work an Emergency Response Team (ERT). This idea is ridiculous during my shift (11pm X 7am), where the chance of a picket line riot is non-existent. As a result, the cops assigned to the ERT spend eight hours sitting in a district HQ twiddling their thumbs, awaiting a radio call that probably will not come.

Now, I'm no genius (obviously), but wouldn't it be more productive to keep the officers in their district to answer 911 calls, instead of having them warm a bench somewhere? Just a thought.

Editor's Note: Yours truly is scheduled to work the wagon again tonight. Under my not-so-supervisor's "fair" system, this will be my third time in seven days. My loss is your gain, since post-wagon writing usually generates the most positive response. I'm not sure if you guys are laughing with me or at me, but . . .

PJ Maximum - The Uber-Hottie!

It's been a few days since I posted a picture of a fabulous babe to keep my drooling compatriots of my back. Today, however, I'll do ya one better - I'm gonna link PJ Maximum (aka "Uber").

Ever wonder why I don't post pictures of myself on the blog? It's not because I am afraid of assassination attempts. It's because I look like a cave troll from The Lord of the Rings. Uber obviously doesn't have this problem, as you can clearly see here. Now, before you go calling me a sexist, I need to 'splain myself:

1. I am a sexist. Deal with it.

2. Behind the hotness, Uber writes a damned entertaining blog, which will be added to the sidebar post haste.

Now stop reading this drivel, and go check her (um, I mean her blog) out. You'll thank me later.

Editor's Note: Despite repeated attempts, I am still hearing rumors that other bloggers link me without my knowledge. PLEASE let me know if you make the mistake of linking this euro-trash, so I can return the favor. Thanx!

Hollow-ween

For the first time ever, I got to take my four-year old trick-or-treating last night. I am usually stuck on candy detail, while the wife scurries around the neighborhood. Don't get me wrong; candy detail isn't all bad - I can munch on Reese's Peanut Butter Cups while I watch NHL Center Ice - but I always feel like I'm missing out on the fun. So, when I was called up from the minors, I wanted to take everything in. The verdict:

Halloween is dying a slow, painful death.

Exhibit A - "Where's the turkey? Where's the mashed potatoes? WHERE'S THE TRICK-OR-TREATERS???" My wife bought two average-sized bags of assorted candy, and I think we emptied only one - and that's with giving some local kids two or three pieces at a time. Our street was a ghost town after an hour. Sad.

Exhibit B - Teenagers suck. There were far too many older kids that just grabbed a pillow case and walked around sans costume. No costume, no makeup, nothing. That's hella-weak! Little bastards should have stayed home.

Exhibit C - This isn't Montgomery, Alabama, so why are people busing into my neighborhood? My block (and a few blocks surrounding mine) consists of single homes - a rarity in some parts of the city. Every year, large vans and SUV's pull up and let out about a dozen kids each to snare some goodies. Our neighborhood is pretty populated, so locals can walk fairly easily. These toads are coming from the other side of town. Do they think that because I own a single home that I will be giving out $100 bills? Cripes!

Exhibit D - It's called Halloween, not Whore-oween! Has anyone else noticed that this holiday seems to be an excuse for teenage girls to dress up like sluts - even moreso than normal? That's fine and dandy if you're out of high school (actually, I applaud that), but don't give me little Tina in her "witch" costume, which consists of fishnet stockings, "come get me" boots, and more makeup than Christina Aguilera. Thank you.

I can only hope - for the sake of my sons - that Halloween makes a comeback soon. I would hate to see the holiday die.

Third Is The Word

Well, I didn't win (and I didn't deserve to, either), but I took third place in GOP and the City's Weekend Caption Contest! Congrats to JimmyB for taking the top prize! (Even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut. Heh.)