Cops, They Love Me

Cops, They Love Me

That’s my cop face. I would be a hot cop.

Like REALLY love me.

I was totally lacking insperado this afternoon and was just farting around until I decided what I wanted to write when I passed a cop on the other side of the highway who had someone pulled over for whatever.  Now, I’m driving in the opposite direction with a median separating us and everyone going my way slowed down.  Not me.  That’s stupid.  First of all, the cop is on THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HIGHWAY and secondly – HE’S BUSY.

Now I know my friend Shelly said her bro once passed a cop who had someone pulled over and said cop took the registration and ID of the guy he had pulled over and chased her brother down to give him a ticket.  Total douche move.  If I was the one pulled over and my personal info was taken on a high-speed chase, all hell would break loose.

My point is that this cop today was on the other side of the highway with a median between us.  Everyone slammed on their breaks.  Not me!  Hells to the no!  I went all NASCAR on their asses and weaved my way through the traffic.  I’m so badass.

This reminded me of a story so very, very bad I just have to tell it.  In my defense, I attempted to be responsible.  It was NOT my fault.  Nope.

Okay, so this was right after 9/11.  I worked for an airline in Syracuse, NY.  During those first few post 9/11 months, the airport was loaded with employees, police and the National Guard.  We all became friends.  One National Guardsman let me borrow a CD called “Porno Sonic”.  I never gave it back.  It was narrated by Ron Jeremy and was all porno beats.  He should have known better.

We also all frequented the same bar after we got out of work.  I’d actually have pilots who would call in (the overnight crews) ask “Is this Julie?” and when I said of course (because why wouldn’t they recognize my voice over the FAA dispatch?), they’d always ask where I was taking them.  I always had the same answer.  I also made sure they had a cab.  That bar was basically a straight shot to my house.

So this one day, I’m hanging out at our bar and there’s this one cop who has the hots for me.  Big time.  He’d been after me for weeks and it was just never going to happen.  Nope.  Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t let him buy me drinks though.  After all, it’s rude to turn a drink down when it’s being offered.  It’s all about common courtesy.

I do like to drive responsibly and I keep my eye on the time and always switch to water by 12:00 (we never left there until around 3:00AM) and I was starting to feel a pretty solid buzz by then.  It was going to take a swift vomit followed by a McDonalds run to avoid THAT hangover.  I was about 22 so don’t judge.  Remember when YOU were 22?  Right? Right.

Well Mr. McCoppy Pants is INSISTING I keep drinking.  He’s INSISTING he will pay.  I flat out told him I’m going to get tanked and I will not party with a bunch of off-duty cops and then drive home.  My step-father was killed by a drunk driver and I’m sure we’ve all made our mistakes but that 2AM ride home is precious to me and I prefer to get home unscathed.

This is where it gets cool as hell horrible.  Mr. McCoppy Pants makes himself a phone call.  He and his officer buddies are all hanging out with me and my co-workers and friends (I knew the bar owner and all the employees – I need to look them up on Facebook, thanks for the reminder) when all of the sudden two police showed up at the bar. Their assignment?  ME.

It was about one o’clock in the morning.  I had at least an hour to kill and like I said, we usually sailed past two.  We were the elite – the airline employees after 9/11.  Their mission?  To guard me.   I now had no excuse to stop drinking.  I was told those exact words.  Save for the fact that alcohol poisoning was not in my future (but let’s face it, I’m Irish and Polish.  It takes A LOT to put me down.  Just sayin’), I got drunk.  Flat out drunk.

Don’t blame me.  I was young and the police TOLD me to.

I’m fairly sure Mr. McCoppy Pants was awful let down when I high-fived my way out of the bar with my two rookie cops.  On the way out, I asked them what the game plan was.  I figured one would drive me and the other one would follow so the driver could get a ride back to the other car.


I imagine had I thought of that, it would have happened but their idea?  Sandwich me.  I was like royalty.  With one car in front and one behind, they escorted me home with lights blaring above.  Frankly, I hated every second of it.  It was without a doubt one of the coolest stories I have to tell, but their lights made me dizzy and they wouldn’t stop off at McDonalds so I had to do the vomit followed by whatever leftovers I had in the fridge so I could fight the potential hangover headed my way.

The next morning I had to get a ride into work because I still had a buzz.  Yep.  I was a gate agent and I boarded the 6AM flight after about three hours of sleep DRUNK (I was 22).  I remember slamming water and it just amped up the buzz.  My co-worker Lisa said to me “NO! No, Julie!  You can’t DRINK WATER after a night like that!  It’ll just stir up all the shit and bring the drunk back!  If you’re thirsty, just get a glass of ice water and stick your tongue in it.”

So that’s what I did.

After lapping up ice water like a drunk puppy who just had a Presidential police escort home from the bar, I successfully boarded 48 people on a regional jet to Newark.

I am shamefully (because I’m assuming you think I should be) AWESOME.

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