A few weeks ago, my buddy El Jus picked me up in his nice SUV so we could escape the city for the day and go shooting shotguns up north. He parked near my place and I told him I had to pick up a "Panini" at my local food monger across the street before we left. He agreed, and we walked there.
I was hungry like the Wolf because I only ate beer the night before, and had eaten a steady diet of nothing since being awoken by a Saturday morning douche bag Reggaeton drive-by a few hours earlier, so my stomach made the executive decision to tell my brain to walk and eat at the same time. And I did just that.
So I ate my Italian Panini sandwich and we walked back to his nice SUV. But I was conscious of the fact that I wasn't eating with good manners because of my terrible hunger, and I didn't want to go all man-bear inside his car's sparkly leather interior, so I hastily finished my delicious European style sandwich outside the vehicle, simply out of respect. I could tell he wanted me to hurry up, but his passive aggressive eye rolling achieved nothing. When a person is so hungry they think like a forest pig scavenging the frozen earth in a Siberian white out it's hard to pick up on those things.
Luckily, I eat faster than lasers fuck, so I was done pretty quick.
So then I see this cop with a ticket book standing outside my friend's SUV. I was really nervous because I didn't want to be the reason my friend got a ticket, and I looked at the cop and was confused. You see they had their back to me, and all I saw was this boxy frame with a cop hat on top of it. I didn't know what it was. It was sunny out, I was tired, and time was now my enemy. But I had to say something. Big ticket=awkward drive+no fun for the rest of the day. So before I could think, I blurt out:
"Excuse me! Sir! Ma'am! Miss! Sir! Sir! Officer! Ma'am! Miss! Officer! We're here, sir! We're right here! Please!!"
Then the cop turned around, and the face had a mustache on it. And it was Crimson red.
"I'm a MAN," he said, and flipped his ticket book closed, and walked away.
My friend proceeded to call me an Asshat for the next 45 minutes.
Whatever. I may have been wrong about his gender, but I swear to you that man owned a pair of plusher than plush gams, and had the unmistakable shape of a sweet, sweet, lady. And if I learned anything from the timeless lyrics of Colombian singer/songwriter Shakira, the hips never lie.
