It wasn’t long ago when my sainted wife and I were stopped
by a local law enforcement representative.
I won’t tell you who it was but, it rhymes with Maryland State
Valise. The State Valise trooper told me
the speed limit was 55 MPH. I was
traveling well above that, at which point he explained the number on the sign
represented the maximum amount rather than the minimum. I stood corrected.
Fast-forward to yesterday when my sainted wife and I were
watching a COPS marathon. Nearly every
show contained a traffic stop that involved the stopee jumping and running from
the vehicle.
Along the way, these upstanding citizens of the community,
who clearly fled because they “were scared,” tossed copious amounts of crack
cocaine and various drug paraphernalia in an effort to have no evidence on them
when they were duly nabbed by the constabulary.
Invariably, once caught, these perps would deny knowing
anything about that contraband, even though their pharmaceutical littering was
captured on videotape.
Some even had drugs tucked neatly into the pants they were
wearing and explained that away by saying not only did they not realize the
drugs were stuffed in the pockets, the pants were not theirs – the britches
were simply borrowed from someone unknown.
Of course these candidates for canonization were innocent
until proven guilty in a court of law.
But I digress.
During one the many commercials breaks a conversation ensued
about when the appropriate time to flee from the authorities was appropriate.
This is a good time to explain that neither of us imbibes in
illegal narcotics, legal marijuana, or even listen to Lady Gaga. Our biggest offense is tipping a glass, or
two, of wine or spirits in the form of Crown Royal. That’s
a hint for readers wishing to express their sincerest gratitude for these
amusing stories.
Finding ourselves perplexed, we tried to conjure up a
scenario for taking flight to avoid apprehension by the law.
Since we don’t drink and drive, carry illegal goods, tote
concealed weapons, smuggle undocumented aliens, or beat up our fiancés inside
elevators, there was little in the way of a foot chase for us in which to
become engaged.
Baffled, we arrived at this scenario:
While traveling on the highway designed for speeds of 70
MPH, we are stopped for exceeding the speed limit of 55 MPH. As soon as the Maryland State Valise pull
over, my sainted wife bolts from the car.
Immediately, a chase is on.
Although a humdrum one since my sainted wife has been collecting Social
Security for some years, it is a chase, nonetheless.
She is sprinting at a blistering pace of two- to
three-miles-per-hour, with the police huffing and puffing behind, akin to
blue-tick hounds in pursuit of a fleeing raccoon.
Enroute to a safe haven, she tosses split-sized bottles of
chardonnay and pinot grigio as she makes her Mercury-like escape.
Meanwhile, I dutifully complain to the backup trooper that I
was stopped because of profiling, all-the-while repeating the sentence, “I
didn’t do nothing! I didn’t do nothing!”
Eventually, we both find ourselves standing in front of a
judge with our public defender. Our
excuse for resisting arrest? We were
scared and, it wasn’t our wine.
“Good enough for me,” says the judge. “You two are free to go.”
