By Farley James
There is a subset of the population who are cop car magnets. They barely turn the ignition key on and the red and blue lights are flashing in the rear view mirror.
Is it their race, their color, their nationality, or some other obvious feature? Yes, sometimes, but mostly it’s people who work at being jerked around and then are stupefied as to why they are being “picked on.”
They come in a lot of sizes and shapes, usually male and usually young. (If they aren’t bright enough to figure out what’s going on, after several encounters, they move on to be picked on by their keepers.)
Common configurations include:
- The wannabe low rider slumped low in the driver’s seat with only the off center bill of his cap protruding above the steering wheel, radio cranked to 110 decibels projecting the heart beat of a whale and “bitchin” scratched into the trunk lid with a screwdriver.
- A 1990 civic complete with 8 inch diameter Chrome can tail pipe, hand painted racing stripe, no front plate, and never shifted into second gear until driven a mile or two in first gear at speeds between 35 and 45 MPH, just to keep that “JC” pipe at full song for the benefit of the surrounding population.
- The biker with the obligatory straight pipes, two foot raised bars, Nazi helmet and Iron Cross rearview mirrors complimenting the little pig with police uniform screwed to the rear fender.
- A ten year old pick-up jacked up high enough to clear fire hydrants and small children, shod with tires that would do a John Deere proud, two six inch barely muffled stacks, and several million candle power of lights capable of burning out the rear window of a new BMW a hundred yards distant.
- OK, if I must, red sport cars.
All but the last category are populated by folks who just can’t figure out why the police seem to single them out, instead of the lady in the van with the cell phone glued to her head through two light changes. Or the old guy that likes the left lane because it’s smoother and he can see the shoulder better.
It must be the hair-do, or maybe their taste in music. It certainly couldn’t be the bumper sticker that proclaims “Charley Manson Was My Mother.”
Image Credit: a3bs
