Glocks and Cops

Omg. Omg. Omg. My heart just exploded from my chest.

Its 3am and I'm sitting on my futon writing an email to someone when some jackass comes and BANGS on the apartment door. No doubt one of the pismire meat head jocks that always get too drunk to find their way back to their women around here.

I set my laptop down and walk over to the peephole expecting to see a swaying moron holding his penis and a can of beer. Instead I see a lot of pink.

Okaaayyy? So some dipshyte holding up a pamphlet for a party that I should be at?

Meh, I figured I would let the drunken moron realize he had the wrong house and he would go on his merry way.

No such luck. The idiot BANGS on the door again. This pisses me off greatly. Not only is it 3am, but my sister is asleep and I'm having my writing zone interrupted by some pothead who doesn’t know how to count apartment numbers.

That and the banging sounded very aggressive. And since aggressive behavior tends to make me even more aggressive than I already am... I went for my Glock.

I grabbed my baby, marched to the front door and checked the peep again. Still covered. Whatever, Id show this asshole that I wasn’t some little sorostitute and I didn’t appreciate being disturbed this early in the morning.

I flipped both the locks on the door with my left hand (My right still clasped around my Glock) and stood back enough that I could get a view of the upper landing and whatever cheap beer drinking dorkus might inhabit it. In order not to be violating my Right to carry arms I kept my gun out of site behind the door lest Beer Boy think I was brandishing it and piss himself all over my doorstep.

Well, the meat head turned out to be three guys.

All dressed in uniforms.

POLICE OFFICERS.

I stood there for the proverbial second that seemed like hours and assessed the situation. I was standing half naked in an open door way facing three cops. One of them had a Maglite the size of my thy held up over his head (my apartment was pitch black). I had a loaded (but not chambered) Glock hidden behind the door. I was frakked.

One officer acted like he was going to push the door farther open and step inside so my self preservation kicked in and I spout: “I have a gun!” Not in a menacing way, but in a tone that indicated complete and total disbelief.

The three officers glance at each other and then back at the girl in glasses and the United Way Staff shirt and the tall one says: “Well, just put it down on the floor and step back.”

No shyte, I thought. The Glock felt like it weighed 100LBS and was on fire. I bent down and set it on the orange entry carpet and stepped back into my kitchen. I wrapped my arms around myself to stop from shaking.

The three Officers came in and started looking around. The black one with his massive Maglite. The short, heavier one finds the lights and flicks them on. I stupidly thought that I should have done the dishes.

“May I ask what this is about?” I asked. Mom would be proud. Even during chaos I was polite.

“We got a call for a Domestic [Disturbance] for this address.”

I look around my apartment and see the game cube strewn across the floor from where I was playing Mario Sunshine and my laptop sitting beside it playing MC Chris’s “Geek” softly. I glance back up at the black cop. It registered in the back of my head somewhere that he looked really kind. He smiled.

“This is apt 34*?”

I nodded and looked around again. The heavier cop had picked my Glock up off the floor and popped the magazine out and cocked and locked the slide back and set it all on the kitchen table and was looking it over.

I took the time to be proud that I had hollow points in the mag and had cleaned my gun since the last time I shot it.

Tall Cop realizes that they might have the wrong address and radios in to confirm while Heavy Cop walks back further into the apartment.

Black Cop: “Anyone here with you.”

“Just my Baby Sister. You can go back and check on her, but you’ll scare the crap out of her.”

He chuckles.

Tall Cop comes back. I could hear the call he made over the radio through Heavy Cop’s radio at his waist. It was defiantly apartment 34.”* But they realize something isn’t right.

Tall Cop: “Well, she doesn’t look beat up.” They all laugh.

I spurt out that I took karate. Pointless. Hadn’t I just answered the door with a loaded weapon?

“Is there any other apartment 34’s* around here?” one of them asks.

I pondered for a min. I kind of felt like I was brainstorming with them and I liked it. “Across the way, maybe. I think they are all labeled the same save for the actual building number.”

They take one last sweep. Black Cop bends over and checks out my Glock.

“40?” he inquired. (Referring to the caliber.)

“Nah, 9 mill. Daddy got it for me for Christmas. We go shooting a lot.”

They all laugh and I want to bust out doughnuts and bad coffee and sit around shooting cop shyte. So, that Vic from last night was suspicious. What about the Perp? Total scumbag! Too bad we never fingered that UNSUB in the White Case.

Before I was done daydreaming they had nodded and smiled and closed the front door. I stood there for a beat and ran to see if Steph was ok.

Whores with Parking Issues

Ok, everyone knows I have anger issues. I’ll be the first to admit it. But, damn it… yesterday I was down right homicidal. Hack someone open and plant daisies in their chest homicidal.

I live in college apartments (and will until hell freezes over unless I get a worthwhile degree soon) that come with their fair amount of idiots. But I dwell above two of the biggest crack whoring fucktards on the planet. And no, this isn’t my jealous opinion because I think they are prettier than I am… they are honestly fucktards. No social skills outside of blowing their abusive (and apparently shared) boyfriend and bugging their dealer for cocaine. No common courtesy at all. This includes playing their music loud enough to shake the frame of my bed at 4am in the morning, and parking on TOP of my Jeep.

I love my Jeep. I've named my Jeep… I frakking talk to my Jeep on a regular basis. Outside of my sister, my Jeep is about the only thing I give a damn about in this town. So one can imagine my concern when I noticed tiny dings on his passenger door and missing paint flecks.

To further explain my anger I must get across a simple point. One of property. The foundation our country was built on. The right to own property… and not have it shyte upon by the brainless piles of genetic abortions that I live above.

It’s not that they are angry with me in some manner. It is simply that the concept of maneuvering a two ton piece of metal in BETWEEN two blinding yellow lines eludes them. They apparently were held back in kindergarten for not being able to color within the lines and it is catching up with them in their “adult” life.

Now, not everyone is going to be able to park perfectly between the lines the first time every time. However, if one is pulling in between two other vehicles on either side, then there is the expectation of the Adjustment. This is where one backs up and pulls in straighter. I've timed it… it takes exactly 15 seconds to do.

I'm assuming the crack whores are really jonesing by the time they get home so the 15 seconds is precious time they cannot afford to waste. Because they don’t. They simply leave their tore up silver POS car parked over the yellow lines and hit my passenger side door every time they open their driver’s side door to get out. I have to back OUT of my space to let Steph into my passenger side to avoid hitting their car….

Anyway, as it happens they did this for the 10943th time yesterday… and I was grumpy yesterday. Steph pointed it out to me from our upstairs window that the silver car was again parked too close, so I decided I would just simply move my Jeep. No big deal.

As I walked down the steps and came closer to my Jeep and the silver monstrosity parked to its left I slowed my steps and finally came to a stop… and stared. It couldn’t be. There was no possible way. Was there? Did this genetically inferior, coke addicted, back woods, trailer trash moron really park like THAT and not Adjust?

I walked up to my passenger side and glanced at my side mirror… I couldn’t fit my pinky between her’s and mine. I snapped. My heart rate shot up and I ceased to be able to hear anything save for the blood rushing through my veins.

I went and pounded on their door and stood to the side lest they see a raging psycho and not open. When the tiny mouse did answer the door I grinned and pointed to her car:

“Is that silver car with the NY plates yours?”

She piped up and smiled (no missing teeth, I noticed… I guess she hasn’t been addicted as long as I had thought), “Yeah! It is!”

“Ahh,” I nodded and tried to breathe and stop my hands from shaking. “Well, would you mind not parking so damn close to my jeep every time? You are dinging my door and it’s starting to irritate me.”

Mouse girls face fell a little and she stepped in behind her door. “Oh well, I made sure not to hit your door when I got out.”

Mhmm, I thought. Bullshyte. I called her bluff. “Well, I've seen you hit my door on several occasions.” At this time the heavier roommate came peeking above her friends head. She glanced at me nervously and stepped back into the apartment and out of my vision.

Mousie decides she is no longer happy, or afraid… but righteously enraged! “Well, why don’t you tell whoever owns that yellow piece of crap to park straight and I wont have to park like that!”

As she pointed to Jerika’s nice yellow car (she lives across from me on the top floor) my mouth fell a little in disbelief. Not only is Jerika parked halfway decently, but there are approximately 700,000 other parking spaces in the lot that are empty…

“Well, sweetheart,” I cooed, “What is your excuse when the parking lot is empty? It’s two yellow lines… you park BETWEEN them. Not on top. It really isn’t that hard of a concept to grasp, ya know?”

It all gets a little fuzzy after this point. I think she mumbled something about going now and retreated back into her little whore house.

Now, am I wrong to expect a certain level of competence in my fellow man? It is too much to expect someone not to repeatedly hit my Jeep? I mean, if this is a ridiculously high level of expectation I think someone should tell me. Because the next time someone hits my Jeep out of pure stupidity I am going to burry them alive under my bedroom window and let their screams lull me off into dream land.