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Dead Women Sometimes Cry in the Rain, And Baby Socks

Never start a story with the weather.

I’ve heard this many times over the years.

Even Elmore Leonard kicked off his “Don’t-do-it” list with a rule about the weather.

  1. Never open a book with the weather.
  2. Avoid prologues.
  3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
  4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said.”
  5. Keep your exclamation points under control!
  6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
  7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
  8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
  9. Same for places and things.
  10. Leave out the parts readers tend to skip.

Elmore Leonard said it’s taboo!

Now, with that said and with an absolute clear understanding of the rules—NO Weather!—let’s get on with the show … today’s true story. And it starts like this … with the weather.

It was a dark and stormy night in our county. Rain lashed against my windshield in sheets, driven horizontally by gusts of wind that played a violent to-and-fro game of tug of war with the red oaks and pines flanking the county road. It was a sideways kind of rain that TV weather reporters often battle during live hurricane coverage of the really big ones. Their on-camera backdrops are airborne lawn chairs and garbage cans, toppling trees, and waves crashing onto houses far from the shoreline.

Yes, it was that kind of storm.

I was hard at work that night, patrolling county roads and checking on businesses and homes, when my headlights reflected from something shiny a ways into in the woods. I stopped, backed up, and turned onto a narrow sloppy-wet dirt path that led me to a clearcut section along a power line, and eventually to the source of the reflection. It was a car parked approximately thirty yards off a dirt road next to a river. I used my spotlight to examine the vehicle and the surrounding area.

The driver’s door was open and to my surprise, the body of a woman was lying half-in and half-out, with the outside portion getting soaked by the deluge of water falling from the dark sky. I couldn’t tell if she was alive, but instinct and experience said, “Not.”

I turned the spotlight to scan the woods on both sides of the clearing. No sign of anything or anyone, but you never know what danger lies beyond the light’s reach. Again, it was dark and stormy making it one of those scenarios where every single hair on the back of your neck and arms immediately leaps to attention. Spooky, to say the least.

So, despite the downpour, thunder, lightning, and those hyper-vigilant hairs (the cop’s sixth sense was in full overdrive), I had to get out to investigate. So I did.

I again scanned the area carefully, using my Maglite, the old metal kind, making certain this wasn’t an ambush. And, after yet another look around, I cautiously plowed forward while the winds drilled raindrops into my face and against my lemon-yellow vinyl raincoat, the one I kept in the trunk of my patrol car just for times like this one. The fury of those oversized drops of water was like that of small stones striking at a pace equal to the rat-a-tat-tatty rounds fired from a Chicago typewriter.

The plastic rain protector I’d placed over my felt campaign hat worked well at keeping the hat dry, but the rain hitting it was the sensation of hundreds of tiny mallets hammering all at once, as if an all-xylophone symphony decided to perform a complex syncopated piece on the top of my head. At a time when I truly needed the ability to hear a single pin drop, well, it simply wasn’t happening. So xylophoned from above machine-gunned from all sides. It was unpleasant weather during an unpleasant situation.

It was a fight to walk headfirst into swirling, stinging winds that tugged and pulled and pushed against my raincoat, sending its tails fluttering and flapping, exposing my brown over tan deputy sheriff uniform. It—the uniform—was not waterproof. Not even close.

The ground surrounding the car was extremely muddy, and with each step, my once shiny brown shoes collected gobs of thick, soggy soil until it felt as if gooey, slimy bricks were attached to the bottoms of my feet with large suction cups.

These, during a dark and sorry night, were the deplorable conditions in which I met the crying dead woman.

Likely, Mr. Elmore Leonard had not had the opportunity to encounter such a situation. Otherwise, rule number one, “the weather rule,” might have met its demise before it ever met the page.

It was one-on-one—me and the victim.

I know it sounds like a bit of overwriting when describing the weather on this night; however, you must experience it as I did. You should know and see in your minds that raindrops the size of gumdrops pelted the victim’s face, gathering and pooling at the corners of her eyes, eventually spilling out across her cheeks like tiny rivers that followed the contours of her flesh until they poured from her in miniature waterfalls.

She was a dead woman crying in the rain.

Passenger door,

Open.

Bottom half in,

Top half out.

 

Lifeless hand,

Resting in mud,

Palm up.

Face aimed at the sky.

 

Rain falling,

Mouth open.

Dollar-store shoes,

Half-socks.

 

Youngest daughter—the seven-year-old,

Called them baby socks.

Her mother’s favorite,

Hers too.

 

Hair,

Mingled with muck,

And water,

Sticks and leaves.

 

Power lines,

Overhead.

Crackling,

Buzzing.

 

Flashlight,

Bright.

Showcasing

Dull, gray eyes.

 

Alone,

And dead.

A life,

Gone.

 

Three rounds.

One to the head,

Two to the torso.

Kill shots, all.

 

Five empty casings,

In the mud.

Pistol.

Not a revolver.

 

Wine bottle.

Beer cans.

Empty.

Scotch.

 

“No, we don’t drink. Neither did she. Except on special occasions. Yep, it must have been something or somebody really special for her to drink that stuff.”

“Was there a somebody special?”

Eyes cast downward.

Blushes all around.

“Well … she did stay after Wednesday night preaching a few times. But they were meetings strictly about church business. After all, he is the Reverend. A good man.”

More blushing.

A stammer, or two.

A good man.

 

The rain comes harder,

Pouring across her cheeks.

Meandering

Through her dark curls.

 

Droplets hammer hard

Against her open eyes.

Pouring into tiny rivers,

Filling the puddles below.

 

She doesn’t blink.

Can’t.

She’s a dead woman crying,

In the rain.

 

Tire tracks.

A second car.

Footprints.

Two sets.

 

One walking.

Casually?

A sly, stealthy approach?

The other, long strides.

 

Running, possibly.

Zigzagging toward the woods.

Bullet lodged in spruce pine.

One round left to find.

 

Cold water inside my collar, down my back.

Shivering.

Cloth snagged on jagged tree branch.

Plaid shirt.

 

Blood?

Still visible?

in the rain?

The missing fifth round?

 

Maglite never fails, even in torrential rain.

Cop’s best friend.

A shoe in the underbrush.

Attached to man.

 

Dead.

Bullet in the back.

The fifth round.

Coming together, nicely.

 

Church meetings.

Reverend.

Two lovers.

A special wine for a special occasion …

 

A good man.

Sure he is.

Police car,

Parks at the curb.

 

Morning sunshine.

Tiny face,

Peering from window.

Waiting for Mama?

The scent of frying bacon in the air.

The door swings open.

Worried husband.

“No, she didn’t come home after church. Called friends and family. Nobody knows.”

 

Husband, devastated.

Children crying.

“Yes, I have news. 

And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 

Tire tracks match.

Pistol found.

Preacher,

He hangs his head in shame.

 

Special occasion.

To profess love.

But …

Another man.

 

A second lover.

Anger.

Jealousy.

Revenge.

 

Handcuffs.

Click, click.

Murder’s the charge.

No bond.

 

Single, unique plant seed,

Stuck to the brake pedal.

The single bit of evidence,

That tied him to the scene.

 

Got him.

Prison.

Life.

No parole.

 

A “good man”, a preacher, left the little girl’s mama to cry in the rain.

 

 

A couple of days ago, raindrops squiggled and wormed their way down the panes of my office windows.

And, as it often happens on rainy days,

I think of the crying dead woman.

Of her kids,

Her loving husband and,

Of course,

Baby socks.

 

/by
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I Found Jesus, and He Likes Chocolate Milkshakes

I found Jesus many years ago. To be precise, it was the Thursday before Easter when our face-to-face meeting took place, but our coming together did not occur in a typical place of worship or during a moment of prayer. Not even close. Instead, he appeared to me in a grassy median strip that divides the north and southbound lanes of I95.

Jesus, as the long-haired man identified himself to me, must have been working an undercover assignment from Heaven, and I say this because instead of what we’ve all seen in paintings as traditional attire, the man I encountered was dressed in a couple of old and ratty men’s dress shirts (one on top of the other), faded, grungy blue jeans, and holy holey Chuck Taylor sneakers. Sure, his hair was long and wavy and his beard was like the one that’s familiar to us from the portraits we see of the Son of God. But something wasn’t quite right.

Being the savvy police investigator that I was, I began to pick up on a few clues that prompted several questions to begin scrolling across the marquee inside my brain. Questions that needed answering. Like… Why would Jesus speak with a southern accent? Why would Jesus address me as Captain? Was he current on his knowledge of rank insignias? Why would Jesus attempt to thumb a ride on the interstate? Why were his shoes wet? After all, there’s that “walking on water” thing. Why did his eyes dart from side to side instead of focusing on me? Was he telepathically watching an in-progress tennis match at Pearly Gate Stadium? And why did the man who once fed thousands with a couple of fish ask me for money so he could buy something to eat?

Needless to say, I was confused. So I questioned the man about his identity, treading lightly, just in case. Faith and that sort of thing, you know..

When I asked where he lived, the man’s lips split into a slightly cockeyed grin, exposing his front teeth tooth. Another clue.

He said, “My son, I live everywhere. From mountaintop to the bottom of the deepest ocean. I live in the hearts of the saved and in the bodies of the damned.”

Okay, I admit, despite the obvious lack of oral hygiene, this was a bit spooky.

He continued. “I was baptized by John and I seek perfection in all men.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. Could he really be …

“Captain, I’d like to go home. Could you help me?”

What’s this, I thought. Jesus needs my help? Is that even possible?

“Where is home … sir?” I couldn’t quite bring myself to call him Jesus. At least not this soon in our earthly relationship.

“I live at the crazy hospital in Petersburg, Virginia, Captain. I went for a walk yesterday and haven’t been able to find my way since.”

Well, that was a switch. Jesus telling me that he couldn’t find his way, when I’d been “lost” for a good portion of my life. “Sure,” I said. I’ll be glad to help you. In fact, I’ll call someone right now to see what we need to do to get you home. In the meantime, would you like something to eat?”

“Yes, my son, I would. Could I have a hamburger, some delicious fries, and a chocolate milkshake? That’s my favorite.” 

“Sure you can,” I said. “Whatever you want.”

God bless you, son. There’s a place in heaven for you.”

I guess I’ll never know for sure, but stranger things have happened. At the very least, I shared a meal with a very humble man who, by the way, devoured his supper like it was, well, his last.

 

/by
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It’s Christmas, So Let’s Pull a Fat Guy Through a Car Window

It was on a cold Christmas night, several years ago, when my wife Denene decided that she’d like to ride along with me during my shift so we could at least spend a part of the evening together. It would be her first and last first-hand experience of what I did for a living.

I was the officer in charge of operations, the OIC, that night so it wasn’t as if I’d be responding to calls, meaning I thought the danger level for her would be extremely low. And I was right, the first part of the evening shift was fairly quiet with a few of the typical pushing and shoving drunks, a couple of thefts, a drunk driver or two, a peeping Tom, a disorderly customer at a convenience store, etc. Nothing major.

I took Denene on a tour of parts of the city she’d never seen, and to a few she had but only during the daytime. Believe me, some typically normal neighborhoods totally transform once the sun is down and all the “creepies” come out to play. It’s the time when neon lights replace sunshine, and when alleyways come alive with feral animals, and people who pay for quickie sex behind dented dumpsters overflowing with restaurant waste and wet, slimy butcher shop cardboard and paper.

These are the streets and neighborhoods where wispy tendrils of sewer steam rise from storm drains to twist and writhe their way toward the night sky, floating and undulating until they melt into nothingness. Potholes are deep and overturned garbage cans pour out their innards for all to see. Front yards are bare dirt and sofas and used kitchen chairs sit on front porches featuring leaning posts and broken railings. At the curb at either side of the streets are empty beer cans, broken bottles and used needles and condoms mixed with dry, crispy leaves.

In the area sometimes called “The Bottom,” prostitutes displayed their wares in barely-there outfits while local businessmen, average Joes and sometimes Janes, and even a city official or two drove along the dark streets comparing the “merchandise.”

Zombie-like addicts marched and stumbled aimlessly along cold concrete walks and streets until they finally decided upon a random landing spot in a storefront entrance where they smoked, consumed rotgut liquor, or shot poison into their arms or legs. Then they slept awhile before setting off on another mindless quest for the next high.

Drug runners, the low-level, bottom of the narcotics-selling chain, the vendors of crack, meth, heroin, fentanyl, and Oxy, were at nearly every corner in the “hot” neighborhoods. They often damaged the corner street lamps by throwing rocks at the bulbs, or by shooting them out, so they could operate under the cover of darkness.

Runners stood alone or in small groups of three or so with each holding only a small amount of dope so not much would be lost should they be nabbed by cops. Users cruised the areas in their cars, driving slowly. When the runner spotted a likely customer he’d approach the vehicle. The driver handed over cash ($20 for a single crack rock) and the runner subsequently offered the drug. Sometimes the runner held the foil or plastic-wrapped rock in his mouth so he could easily swallow it in case the “customer” turned out to be a cop. When they were certain all was well they’d spit the wrapped rock into their hand to exchange for the cash.

When the runners sold out of merchandise they’d head back to the dealers to “re-up.” The process repeated hour after hour, night after night after night. The runners were always at ready to take off should an officer approach. It’s a cat and mouse game that’s played again and again—officers got out of our cars and they’d run. Officers chased after them. They’d drop the dope and an occasional gun. Officers picked up “the stuff” and maybe catch the guy or maybe not. Then the process began again with the next runner.

So after showing Denene enough of the rot of the city, I drove to areas where officers were on the scenes of various calls/complaints, making sure all was well. Then the radio crackled with an “officer needs assistance” call. She’d stopped a car for drunk driving and the driver refused to get out of his vehicle. She’d struggled with him a bit, through the car window, but had no luck. In fact, he’d spit at her and attempted to bite her. He’d struck her arms with his fist and tried to punch her face.

So off I went to see the trouble for myself. Other officers were also on the way to assist. When Denene and I arrived two officers were at the driver’s window grabbing and tugging the man and informing him that the use of  pepper spray had become an option. A third officer stood at the passenger window preparing to break the glass. I shifted the car into park and told Denene I’d be right back (the equivalent to “Hold my Beer”). I stepped out of my car and walked over to the action.

Since I was a DOJ master defensive tactics instructor/instructor-trainer who’d trained each of the on-scene officers during their time at the police academy, and the fact that I and Denene owned our own gym and martial arts school, and because I was the ranking officer on the scene, well, they’d assumed that I’d handle this situation. So they parted to allow me access to the driver.

I politely informed the very large, wild and drunken man that he had two options. One, remove his seat belt and get out of the car on his on. Two, I’d cause him intense pain while removing him from the car, through the window. When he spit  at me it was my conclusion that he’d opted for choice number two.

A few seconds later, after inflicting quite a bit of pain (I knew this because he was squealing and squawking like an angry parrot), I pulled him through the seatbelt and through the window (with his helpful assistance since he wanted the pain to stop sooner than asap), pulled him to the ground, spun him around and over using a wrist-turn-out. I then cuffed his hands behind his back.

I told the female officer who’d initially stopped the car to place my handcuffs in the mailbox outside my office door when she’d cleared from processing the man. I then turned and walked back to my car where I nonchalantly asked Denene if she’d like to grab a cup of coffee. Only a minute or two had passed since I first stepped out of my unmarked car.

She said, “How can you be so calm after such a violent event? And how in the world did you get that big man to fit through that window and all so quickly?”

I, like every officer out there, didn’t think twice about it. It’s what we/they are sometimes forced to do, those sorts of things—pulling grown men through car windows and the like. It’s part of the job, like editing is to a writer.

Yes, it was Christmas and Denene and I were together. But she never again rode with me.

She eventually stopped listening the police scanner we had at the house. She switched it off one night, for the final time, after hearing me tell other officers that “I’d go in first.”

Yeah, she’s much happier since writing about this stuff is a WHOLE lot safer …

Aikido

Aikido uses the attacker’s own force against him.

A wrist turnout applies intense pressure to the joint in the wrist, forcing the suspect off balance.

Proper grasp to begin the wrist turnout (Kotegaeshi Nage) technique. To complete the technique the officer maintains his grasp, rotates the suspect’s hand up and to the rear in a counter-clockwise motion while simultaneously stepping back with his (the officer) left leg. The suspect ends up on the floor on his back (see picture below). Any resistance inflcts excrutiating pain in the wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

Combative suspects are normally forced the ground for handcuffing. From this position, a quick turn of the suspect’s wrist and arm will force him to roll over on his stomach. Any resistance causes extreme pain and could injure the controlled wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

To effectively control the wrist, the elbow must be stationary. From this position, the suspect is easily handcuffed.

This wrist lock can cause intense pain in the wrist, the elbow, and the shoulder. Forward and downward pressure forces the suspect to the ground.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

/by
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Dream On: How Works of Fiction Can Prevent an Overfitted Brain

Do dreams and nightmares influence the work of writers? Does writing influence the dreams experienced by authors? How does reading fiction prevent an overfitted brain?

There are several theories about why we dream, the different types of dreams we experience, and how our waking thoughts affect the dreams we experience.

Some experts believe that dreaming may help with processing our emotions. Therefore, it’s not uncommon to dream about momentous events that occur while we’re awake. So yes, a plot, scene, and/or characters (good or evil) developed during the daytime could certainly wriggle their way into a writer’s brain as they sleep.

There is a theory, the continuity hypothesis, stating that most dreams reflect the same notions that concern us while we’re awake. Analyzing those recurring dreams and images could help to identify our biggest worries and fears.

Some researchers theorize that dreams play a role in forming and storing memories, including long-term memory, by processing and sorting information received while we’re awake.

Overfitted Brain Hypothesis

It’s likely that our brains become so used to receiving ubiquitous data day-in and day-out that our minds become desensitized/overfit to the “same old-same old” routine of daily life. Animals under-sample their environment, which makes their brains susceptible to overfitting.

Problems caused by overfitting can be resolved by adding hallucinatory data to our thoughts as the brain goes about its business of learning.

However, the brain can’t truly fine-tune its learning while we’re awake because injecting the hallucinatory information needed to do so might cause or create unpleasant consequences. Therefore, the brain adjusts by having us dream when we’re asleep. Dreams and nightmares are the brain’s method of inserting hallucinatory information as a means of preventing overfitting.

The overfitted brain hypothesis suggests that dreams purposely insert random information into our brains to prevent the desensitization caused by the humdrum routines of our everyday lives. Professor Erik Hoel of Tufts University believes that “dreams happen to make our understanding of the world less simplistic and more well-rounded.”

Professor Hoel’s Overfitted Brain Hypothesis delves deeper into the mere function of dreams, though, such as exploring the notion that works of fiction are artificial dreams. Therefore, time spent reading and/or writing books or watching television is not simply a break from learning, but rather a necessary adjustment of our minds.

“It is the very strangeness of dreams in their divergence from waking experience that gives them their biological function.” – Professor Erik Hoel

Dreams and even nightmares are often great fodder for a story or scene. Sometimes, those nocturnal fantasies are absolutely bizarre and stressful, while other times they’re fun and exciting, or warm and comforting. Occasionally, our dreams involve wonky characters who zip around inside our minds as they go about doing whatever is necessary to move their stories forward. They’re often the perfect protagonist or antagonist for a book.

Likewise, some “characters” found in novels are equally suitable as cast members for appearances during our nocturnal bouts of shut-eye.

A questionable murder (top image), to say the least, is a perfect example of the characters who, for some reason, show up in my mind from time to time. However, these guys often come to me while my eyes are open and I’m wide-freakin-awake. Yep, my brain is a weird one. So are the other characters found inside my ever-working twisted mind. Such as …

The Renowned 100-Yard Em Dash

The em dash is perhaps the most versatile of all punctuation marks.

Whatcha’ Gonna Do ‘Bout the Puppies?

Colon owners consider semi-colons as mixed breeds, therefore they prefer to keep the two apart. This is to prevent an unfortunate encounter that could result in large litters of periods and commas.

Unfortunate encounters could produce large litters of periods and commas

Do You Have Your Ellipsis Glasses?

Punctuation marks have been known (in my mind) to join together to antagonize the sun.

Periods, in a grouping of three, join together to …

Braces for Junior

Braces are also known as curly brackets “{ }”.

Quotation Marks Have Places to Go!

Commas and periods always go inside the quotation marks in American English; dashes, colons, and semicolons almost always go outside the quotation marks; question marks and exclamation marks sometimes go inside, sometimes stay outside. ~ Grammerly 

Stop Shouting

It’s always best to listen to questions first, before responding

WHY???

 

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My Eyesight: What a Wonderful World

This year has been an especially a tough one in our area of the country for those of us who suffer from allergies associated with pollen . So, when I went bed the night of July 31st, I paid no attention to my itchy eyes. After all, the irritation and redness were typical reactions from exposure to the plant particles floating about in the air. No big deal. Or so I thought.

The next morning, to my horror, l awakened to discover that I’d lost most of my vision. Everything was a wall of “dark blur.” I couldn’t recognize things once familiar to me, including my wife Denene, and even my own reflection in a mirror. To make matter worse, my eyes were fire engine red, quite painful, and swollen. Bright light was like a thousand shards of broken glass jammed into my eyes.

I hoped that whatever caused the trouble would go away as quickly as it came, but things only grew worse, So Denene took me to see our physician. One look, though, and he sent me to an ophthalmologist’s office where a handful of doctors, assisted by physician’s associates/assistants, began the process of applying various eyedrops, each with a function of its own—numbing, staining, dilating, constricting, etc. They poked, prodding and shined bright lights of various colors and intensities into my eyes, all while talking among themselves as if I weren’t sitting two feet away. In the meantime, irritation- and pain-induced tears rolled down my cheeks, which were absorbed by the mask I wore, a requirement, of course.

The experience of having so many medical folks doing this and that to you while you can’t see them or the instruments they held in their hands was extremely unsettling. Meanwhile, they discovered a scattering of small ulcers across the surface of my eyes, including across the pupils.

At the end of the appointment, still puzzled about the cause of my troubles, the lead physician rolled the dice and decided on a medication to try for one week. Well, it didn’t work and the condition grew much worse. I. Couldn’t. See.

A specialist was summoned who identified the problem right away, a virus, he surmised, that had likely been dormant in my system since childhood. He prescribed numerous medications in the forms of eyedrops and oral meds. This came after the specialist informed the doctor who’d been treating me that the medications he’d prescribed were not the correct drugs and that they’d actually caused more harm than good. He was genuinely concerned that the virus had spread to the optic nerve which would/could cause permanent blindness. Fortunately, it was limited to the surface of the eye … this time. I later learned the specialist was actually the boss of the entire place, which explained the instant change in demeanor whenever he entered the exam room. I’m thankful the specialist/boss took charge of my case. Had he not I may not be in the position to pen this article.

After a week or so of taking the proper oral meds and plethora of different eyedrops and uncomfortable in-office procedures to  remove “things” from the surface of my eyes, my vision slowly improved and the pain, swelling, and irritation began to subside. Bright lights of any type were still a huge cause of discomfort; therefore, I kept my eyes closed or covered. And my vision was still blurry. To give you an idea of how poorly I could see at this stage, try closing your eyes to the point where you can barely see through your eyelashes. That was a big improvement from day one. Needless to say, using a computer or even watching television was still out of the question.

A week or so later, though, I was able to type and post a message about my eyesight on Facebook by enlarging the page to the point where there were only 6-8 words on the screen, and they were still fuzzy. But seeing 3″ tall extremely fuzzy letters, well, that was a welcome advancement. Still could’t recognize my own reflection in a mirror, but it was progress.

As days passed and with the help of the new medications things turned around and my vision slowly returned to where it is today. Still not normal, but okay.

The doctor theorized that a medication I take may have triggered the virus flareup. Unfortunately, the medication is one that’s part of my required daily medications. Therefore, I’m now taking two new medications that will hopefully prevent the return of the virus. I am to take these medications for life, two eyedrops each day along with a tablet the size of a 1964 Volkswagen hubcap. It’s a small price to pay if it prevents blindness.

Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I’ve not been intentionally rude by not replying to messages. Hopefully, things will continue to improve as days pass and I’ll soon return to blogging regularly, hosting WPA Online classes (exciting new classes are in the works and will be available very soon), and handling other important business.

Thanks to everyone who wrote to express their concern and to wish me well. I couldn’t read your messages until recently, but when I did, well, very much appreciated.

“What A Wonderful World”

Louis Armstrong
 
I see trees of green
Red roses too
I see them bloom
For me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
 
I see skies of blue
And clouds of white
The bright blessed day
The dark sacred night
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
 
The colors of the rainbow
So pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces
Of people going by
I see friends shaking hands
Saying, “How do you do?”
They’re really saying
“I love you”
 
I hear babies cry
I watch them grow
They’ll learn much more
Than I’ll never know
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
 
Yes, I think to myself
What a wonderful world
 
Oh yeah

/by
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Jimmy Bob “Peanut” Lawson: Button-Zinging At The Local Piggly Wiggly

Cap’n Rufus “Tater” Jenkins of the Cornsqueezins’ County Sheriff’s Office had a long night answering call after call—he-saids, she-saids, chasing a half-nekkid Peeping Tom through back yards and alleys, wrestlin’ with a couple of drunks whose scuffle started over who got the last swig from a bottle of Strawberry Hill, kids spray-painting stop signs, and the guy who insisted he was Jesus and attempted to prove it by damning Tater to hell a few dozen times after he refused to give the man ten dollars for a hamburger he promised to repay on Tuesday.

Cap’n Rufus “Tater” Jenkins

Yep, a looonnnggg night and it was only half over when Jimmy Bob “Peanut” Lawson, Jr. decided to join forces with his good friend Jack Daniels to blacken both his wife’s eyes.

Well, Erlene, the wife, wasn’t about to stand for that nonsense so she poked ‘ol Peanut in the gut a couple of times with a dull kitchen knife. Didn’t break the skin, much, mind you, but the act was just enough to send Peanut off the deep end. Oh, he was plenty mad about it, a yellin’ and screamin’ and a stompin’ his Doc Martens across the linoleum, and kicking at Porkchop, the family’s adopted and long ago retired police dog. But Porkchop, having been to this freak show one too many times in the past, was a nervous wreck and knew to stay six or seven dog-dish-lengths away from his master’s size twelves.

Porkchop, having seen his better days, religiously adheres to the seven dog-dish rule of thumb.

After about ten minutes of plate, bowl, and pot-and-pan-throwing, one of the kids, a snot-nosed, freckle-faced boy, aptly named Junior Lawson, Jr., of around ten or so years of age, picked up the cordless and punched the speed dial button for 911.

So Cap’n Rufus Jenkins showed up with lights and siren blazing and blaring to all get out. And Peanut, a Friday night regular, met him in the dirt and weed-infested driveway leading to the rusty single-wide, huffing and puffing like an old-time, coal-fired locomotive engine. In each hand, a backyard chicken he’d been choking in preparation of the Sunday noon meal.

Peanut is well-known in his town as a backyard chicken-choker.

Now here’s where things could get a little dicey. So it’s best to run down the checklist before diving right in. You know, size him up. Is Peanut armed this time? Is he really going to attack? Or, is all that chest-thumping and Tarzan-yelling just a show for the neighbors? Well, Cap’n Jenkins better find out in a hurry because Peanut’s starting to spin like the Tasmanian Devil.

So how can police tell if this guy means business, or not?  Well, there are a few telltale signs that could help evaluate the situation since weapons and other items that are capable of puncturing your flesh, bones, and organs should be your first concern.

Here are some common indicators that Peanut, or the cousin visiting from the big city who’s standing off to the side of the trailer, is carrying a hidden gun or knife. Some are obvious, while others … not so much.

The first is a clear indicator.

Cousin Jimmy Buck from Swamp Holler, West Virginia

Signs the Suspect May Be Carrying a Weapon

1. It’s 97 degrees outside and Peanut, standing smack-dab in the center of the intersection at 9th and Main, is wearing his heavily-insulated, knee-length, blood-stained orange hunting coat. Yes, Einstein, he’s probably wearing it to hide a sawed-off shotgun, the one Daddy gave him for Christmas when he was three.

2. The tail of his flannel shirt is out, but one side is riding higher than the other. A great sign that he’s wearing a weapon on the “high side.”

3. Even wearing a shirt tail on the outside is a sign that he might be carrying a weapon. Unfortunately, it’s also a sign known to bad guys, which means they might recognize you as an undercover officer.

Signs that Peanut is about to attempt to stomp your butt into a mudhole

1. For some unknown reason, many offenders/would-be attackers seem to feel the need to rip off their shirts prior to delivering the first blow. So, when a drunk starts ripping cloth and zinging buttons across the Piggly Wiggly parking lot, well, that might be a good time to reach for the pepper spray because he’s subtly announced his intentions.

The standard shirt-ripping ritual is usually accompanied by lots of top-of-the-lung screaming and yelling, especially nasty comments about your wife and mother. Nasty comments about the family dog are optional.

They sometimes decide to rip off their shirts before engaging in battle. Other times, if the mood to fight strikes ’em just right, they’ll throw punches while wearing nothing but …

2. Another clue that a “Peanut” is about “go for it” is when he starts glancing at a particular spot on your body, like your throat, stomach, or even a knee. Instantly, you should go on alert for a possible strike to that area because the subject is announcing his intentions and he’s ready to pounce. Watch the eyes, for sure, but more importantly watch the hands.

3. “Peanut” constantly glances to a spot behind you, or to a place off to your right just out of your line of sight. Watch out, because his partner may be approaching for a rear ambush. And, his partner just might be Mrs. “Peanut.” Yes, even though her “loving husband” had just moments ago beat the ever-loving snot out of her she’ll often defend her man until the bitter end. Unfortunately, the end sometimes results in a funeral.

These quick glances are also good indicators that the subject has a hidden weapon nearby. For example, you’ve stopped good old “Peanut” for drunk driving and he’s constantly glancing toward the glove compartment. Well, there’s a good chance that a weapon or other illegal items are concealed there.

Eyes. WATCH. THE. EYES.

The Spud family

4. The Lights Are On But Nobody’s Home – You arrive on scene and you approach Peanut, who is standing still, staring off into space. His jaw is clenched and he’s sweating profusely, even though you’re both standing in two feet of freshly-fallen New England snow (New England snow, to me, is the coldest snow on the planet). He doesn’t respond to you in any way, but you see the anger rising—face growing redder by the second, veins poking out on his forehead, eyes bulging. Yeah, you get the idea. Believe me, it is time to take a step back and start pulling every tool you’ve got on your duty belt because this guy’s getting ready to blow. Silence is definitely not golden in this case.

5. Peanut might be a “I’m not going to look at you” kind of personality. This is another indicator that an assault may be on the way. If he’s staring at place on the ground, refusing to listen and obey your verbal commands, then be prepared for an attack. At the very least, be prepared for a battle when the time comes to snap on the cuffs.

I guess a good rule of thumb is to always assume the worst, hope for the best. Sometimes , though, Mrs. Peanut becomes fed up with her abusive husband.

 

/by

Naked And Confused: Stupid Drivers

I’ve never been fond of working traffic details—running radar, crash investigations, issuing parking citations, standing in intersections during the pouring rain, wildly waving my arms and hands to send vehicles on their way, all while blasting tweets from a tin whistle, and the like.

Patrol was an assignment I preferred and I suppose that’s because of the diversity of calls. One minute you’re helping an elderly person who’s locked himself out of his house, and the next you’re wading chest deep into a pile of brawling drunks, or searching an abandoned and crumbling warehouse for a murderer on the run.

I suppose one of the major reasons I grew to despise stopping cars due to high rates of speed, recklessness, and the general failing to obey traffic laws was, well, the outright lack of common sense of some drivers. I’ve long thought that Driving While Stupid (DWS) should be included among the many traffic laws in the books.

A motor vehicle, while traveling along the roadways, is basically a great big, fat, projectile that’s just as capable of killing people as any gun. In fact, the chances of survival are perhaps a bit greater when hit by a bullet. Don’t believe it? Try standing in the path of a car roaring at you at 80 mph and see how well you fare when it strikes you, even with a glancing blow. A bullet, on the other hand, may simply pass through a drooping love handle leaving you with nothing more than a couple of stitches.

But let’s back up a bit to stupid drivers. In fact, let’s narrow the category down to distracted-stupid drivers. I once saw a headline in the San Jose Mercury News that read, Woman Painting Toenails Gets First Prize For Distracted Driving. To quote the writer (Gary Richards – Mr Roadshow), “I saw a woman PAINTING HER TOENAILS as she drove eastbound on the 237 freeway. She had her left foot up on the dashboard in front of the A/C vent so the cool, dry air would blow across her toes, and she was painting her toenails as she drove during the afternoon commute.”

And you thought texting while driving was bad!

Toenail painting is definitely not an activity that should take place while driving to work. But this lady is not the only commuter guilty of driving while distracted. I, as well as other police officers, have a ton of “distracted driving” stories we could share, and they’re not all about cellphones. A few of the ones I’ve seen and issued a summons for, include …

  • Pouring milk and cereal into a bowl and then eating it while driving in heavy traffic. All while driving beside my marked police car.
  • Eating a bowl of ice cream at 75 mph.
  • Applying full face makeup with one hand while holding a large mirror in the other.
  • Reading a book (the book was propped against the steering wheel). This, at speeds varying from 45 to 80 mph, on a major interstate highway.
  • Two nude couples having sex in the same car, while driving at speeds over 60 mph. Yes, the driver was one of the four people in the car.
  • One totally nude man … um … enjoying his time alone.
  • A man driving his expensive car while a nude woman stood on the seat with a leg on either side of him, with the top half of her body through the sunroof. She smiled and waved at us. I was training a rookie at the time. He was driving when we switched on the blue lights.
  • A man wearing a corrections uniform driving a car late at night on a deserted stretch of interstate. His passenger, a totally nude male who was also a corrections officer, was handcuffed to the car door. His uniform was on the backseat in a crumpled pile.
  • A teenager sat on the top of the backrest with his upper body through the open sunroof. He was using his feet to drive while a buddy operated the gas and brake from the passenger side. There were four other teens in the backseat, along with a cooler full of cheap beer and a rear floorboard littered with empty bottles.
  • A teen driver passed by me doing a little over 100 mph. On each of the passenger window sills (windows down) sat a teen (boys and girls) with their bare rear ends hanging outside for all the world to see.
  • A car zipped by me traveling well above the posted speed limit. What really caught my eye was the large German Shepherd behind the wheel. When I stopped the car I was somewhat relieved to see a very small human woman situated behind and beneath her “lap dog.”
  • The passenger of a small pickup truck who wore a horse’s head (mask).

  • The nude couple having sex in the rear area of an SUV, with back door in the up position. By the way, the description of the back door in the up position fits both the vehicle and one of the parties engaged in the public sexual activity. It was not a pretty sight.

Finally, the day I learned that Santa no longer employed reindeer as part of his holiday staff.

How about you? What’s your worst stupid driver story?

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/by

Huck-a-Bucking for Beginners: Square-Dancing Gone Wrong

Every department has at least one officer who doesn’t quite beat the same drum as the others. His, or her, rhythm is slightly off. They can’t quite fit in no matter how hard they try. Sure, everyone likes this person, and they don’t really do anything that’s too weird, yet they always seem to do, well dumb stuff.

Enter my friend Franklin and his first experience with, well, this …

The honky-tonk nightclub was situated just outside the city limits. They were open for business on Saturday nights only and the place was so popular it didn’t take long for the gravel parking lot to fill to capacity with souped-up cars and dented and dusty pickup trucks with gun racks mounted in the rear windows.

Male patrons slicked their hair with Brylcreem or Butch Wax and they wore their best jeans, Stetson hats, dinner-plate-size belt buckles shaped like the state of Texas or a gun of some sort, and spit-shined cowboy boots made of cow, snake, or gator hide, or a combination of two or more. Sometimes the fancier snake hide adorned boots were reserved for Sunday attire along with a store-bought Sears and Roebuck striped suit and pearly-white socks. Many strapped hunting knives to their belts—their handles carved from deer antlers or hunks of wood cut from trees that once stood on family land.

Women curled and teased their hair until it reached heights only before seen by birds, power company linemen, and airline pilots, and then they loaded it with enough Aqua Net to hold it tightly in place for an entire evening of two-stepping and do-si-doing. They slipped into their finest square-dancing dresses and they waited on their front porches for one of those gussied-up farm trucks to pull into the driveway, and when it did … well, “Yipee ki-yay” the night had begun.

This club, the 95 Dance Hall, allowed brown-bagging (bring your own liquor), otherwise known as BYOB—bring your own bottle—because they didn’t have a license to sell alcohol. but they did supply ice and various mixers/chasers. The ice was freshly cracked from 50 lb blocks purchased that afternoon from the local ice and coal business.

Club workers filled galvanized washtubs with the ice and it was free for the taking, with the price of admission. In addition to counter-wiping and keeping a layer of freshly-scattered sawdust on the floor (the ground wood made for a nice “slicker’d-up dance surface, so I was told), the dancehall staff—the wife of the club owner, their kids, and the wives of the steel guitar sliders and banjo pickers—refilled the large metal containers throughout the evening as the frozen chunks of water melted.

By 10 p.m, the 95 Dance Hall was flat-out jumpin’. The house band, the Virginia Barn Dance Boys, was in high gear—fiddling, steel-guitaring, banjo-pickin’, and yodelin’ to all get out. Fancy dresses twirled. Scuffed boot heels clicked and tapped against the wood flooring. Drinks disappeared. Bottles emptied. Vision blurred and speech slurred. Voices and laughter grew louder and louder. The music became more frantic. The drummer rat-a-tatted at machine gun pace … And then the inevitable happened.

Somebody winked at somebody’s best girl and as quick as a fresh green grass goes through a goose, the place erupted into a free-for-all. Fists. Chairs. More fists. More chairs. Then, a knife. And then some blood. And then a call to the sheriff’s office. “HELP!”

Now’s a good time to introduce you to our department’s “one guy.” Remember the description above … doesn’t quite beat the same drum, etc.?

Okay, this is Franklin (not his real name, of course), a thin black man who was was quiet and somewhat shy, especially around women. He rarely spoke unless spoken to. He wore thick glasses with black rims and his uniform, the brown over tan, was always, without fail, neatly pressed with creases sharp enough to peel an apple and shoes so shiny they reflected moonlight on a cloudy night.

Franklin did not like to get his clothes dirty. In fact, he freaked out if a speck of mud marred the surface of his shoes, and he’d stop whatever he was doing to clean and polish them. He wore a tie even when it wasn’t required. And he did not, absolutely did not, would not, nor ever, exceeded the speed limit. Even when responding to the worst of the worst emergency calls. 55 meant 55 and by God 55 is where the needle stopped. Dead on the double nickels. Not one mile per hour more.

Franklin was my friend. A good friend too. But he was a bit quirky, to say the least.

I’d seen Franklin heading to murders-in-progress with red lights flashing and spinning and flickering, with siren wailing and screaming like a baby with a handful of thumbtacks in their diaper, but the posted speed limit was 45 mph so …

Franklin was an extremely cautious driver in other ways too. He utilized every safe driving tactic taught to him at the academy and he always drove with both hands on the wheel, one positioned at ten and the other at two. His seat was pulled nearly all the way forward and even then he leaned forward so close to the steering wheel that it nearly rubbed his chin at every curve and turn (he couldn’t see very well at night was his explanation for leaning close to the windshield). Blind as a bat is what we all thought.

This particular night there were four of us working the late shift—Franklin, two others, and me—and we were all dispatched to the “fight with weapons call.” Having been to a few of those calls at the nightclub over the years I knew we’d be outnumbered and I knew we’d have to fight, going toe-to-toe with practically every bumpkin in the county who used the opportunity as a free pass to punch a deputy . Therefore, since I’ve never been all that fond of pain, or bleeding, I requested backup from the state police and from a nearby city.

By the time we arrived, the fight had spilled out into the parking lot. So we, three deputies and several backup officers from surrounding jurisdictions, began the task of breaking up the massive brawl, which quickly turned into a “them against us” battle.

We were well into the thick of it when we heard a squalling and yelping siren coming our way. A few seconds later a brown sheriff’s office patrol car rolled slowly into the parking lot with siren and lights still in full “I mean business” mode. It was, of course, Franklin, the fourth member of the night shift.

Seriously, you’ve got to picture this to appreciate it. Fifteen cops and forty or so cowboys going to it in the parking lot. Fists flying, boots kicking, handcuffs clicking, batons swinging, clothing torn and dirty, heads bruised from contact with our lead-filled leather saps and wooden nightsticks, faces bruised and jaws stinging from fists covered with brass knuckles. And Franklin, calmly exiting his police car, then smoothing the wrinkles from his pants before slowly easing toward the massive battle.

Suddenly, it was like he, shiny-shoed Franklin, was sucked into a vacuum. In the blink of an eye, he was pulled into the fracas and was doing his best to restrain, arrest and, well, he was basically doing his best to stop people from hitting him.

We eventually gained control and arrested every fool we could lay our hands on and those troublemakers were hauled away to jail. Those of us who remained on the scene went inside the dance hall to speak with potential witnesses to a couple of pretty nasty stabbings. Franklin was one of the deputies who accompanied me inside.

We were a motley crew to say the least—clothing dirty, shoes scuffed, bloodstains here and there, and cut and bruised and sufficiently battered.

Franklin looked as if he’d been dragged through a hog pen, beaten by club-wielding cave people, and then run through the hand-cranked wringer of his grandmother’s antique washing machine. His glasses sat slightly askew on the bridge of his nose. His upper lip was cut and the lower bruised and swollen.

When we stepped from the darkness into the festive interior of the 95 Dance Hall, the lead guitar player of the Virginia Barn Dance Boys was in the process of calling a square dance. Dancers on the floor dipped and swirled and twirled and ducked and hopped like their lives depended on their actions. They’d paid no attention to what had taken place outside.

The music, if one could call it that, was horrible. The fiddler was busy sawing away at the strings, producing screeches that would cause Poe to lose sleep. The drummer’s timing was off. Way off. First he was a half beat too fast, then his sticks tapped slightly slower than the rest of group’s caterwauling. His right foot pushed the pedal against the bass drum in total out-of-syncness with what his left foot and both hands were trying to do. It was almost if that foot had a mind all it’s own.

The guy on the acoustic guitar apparently had never learned to properly tune his instrument. As a musician myself, the sound tap-danced on the raw ends of my nerves. But the crowd did not care. They were gettin’ it done like dancing was their nine-to-five job. Like the world would end if they didn’t go at it like politicians at an election year fundraiser.

Franklin did not move into the club any further than five feet from the front double wooden doors. He simply stood there blinking his eyes as he looked at the spinning and blinking colored lights. At the dancers. The condensation-covered ice tubs that were now half full of water. Franklin looked like a kid at the circus for the first time.

When we finally wrapped up our investigation and were standing outside in the parking lot beside our respective patrol cars, I asked Franklin if he was okay. His battered lips split into a slightly crooked smile before he said, “I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve never seen so many white people at one time in their own environment. And they were Huck-a-Bucking their asses off. This (he pointed to the club) is just bizarre.”

Franklin shook his head from side to side and turned to walk away, but stopped to look back over his shoulder. He said, “You know I’m going to have nightmares over this, right?” Then he playfully two-stepped back to his car and just before climbing in he raised an arm over his head to give a thumbs-up. He let out a loud, “Yee-Haw!” as he slid into the driver’s seat.

We each stood in silence, and disbelief, that Franklin had displayed some sort of emotion and a bit of humor. It was way out of character for him.

We watched Franklin pull out onto the highway where he sped away, at no more than 45 mph, of course. He tooted his horn twice before rounding the curve that took him out of view.

To this day, whenever I see someone square-dancing on TV I immediately think of Franklin’s descriptive term for those specific gyrations and swirls and twirls.

Huck-A-Bucking, according to Franklin: a traditional dance where participants spin, twirl, stomp, duck, and bow to their partners while semi-following the instructions yelled out to them by a band leader who’s sometimes referred to as a caller. When mixed with alcoholic beverages, huck-a-bucking can quickly switch from fun to fighting. Although, fighting is sometimes considered fun by avid huck-a-buckers. 

Yee-Haw, y’all!

20160224_114510

 

/by

From A Cop’s Perspective: What You Didn’t See

Officer Idu Thebestican feels as if he faces a no-win situation each day he puts on his uniform, and he stopped by today to tell why he feels that way. Here’s what the officer had to say …

Today I found a lost grandmother. She has Alzheimer’s and wandered off into a wooded area near a rocky and steep ravine. I sat with her and held her hand until her family arrived to take her home. You didn’t see that.

I got pretty banged up while breaking up a nasty fight between two large men. They were angry over a ref’s call at a kid’s soccer game. You didn’t see that.

A convenience store was robbed by two masked men carrying handguns. I caught one of the robbers after a five-block foot pursuit. He fired a shot at me but missed. Luckily I was able to wrestle the gun from his hand. You didn’t see that.

You didn’t see that!

Two cars crashed head-on, killing everyone inside. I helped remove the bodies, including one of a tiny baby. You didn’t see that.

A bloody face and a broken arm on an eight-year-old girl. Her intoxicated father did that to her and I was there in time to stop him from killing his daughter. I took the punches that were intended for her. You didn’t see that.

I was stabbed and cut in the side by a woman trying to stop me from arresting the husband who’d just beaten her until she was black and blue. It took 30 stitches to close the wound. You didn’t see that.

A drunk man was trapped inside a burning house. I ran in and pulled him out. Burned my hands and face a bit, but the man survived. You didn’t see that.

I changed a flat tire for two elderly woman who were on their way to Florida. It was nearly midnight and they were stranded and alone on the side of a highway. You didn’t see that.

I worked three straight shifts without sleep or meals while trying to catch a guy who’d raped and murdered a teenager. You didn’t see that.

I bought a meal for a homeless man, and then joined him for lunch. He’d served in the military and suffers from severe PTSD. You didn’t see that.

I stopped to throw a few footballs with some young boys. You didn’t see that.

I adopted a needy family at Christmas time and bought them gifts. My wife and I delivered a holiday meal to them. You didn’t see that.

But you chose to see me when I responded to 911 call in your neighborhood, with all of your friends standing around, and you closed in on my personal space with your face just inches from mine to shout, “Murderer!” even though I’ve never killed anyone.

You threw rocks at me while I patrolled your street, trying to keep you safe from robbers, burglars, and killers.

You spit on me while I was arresting a guy in your neighborhood. It didn’t matter to you that he’d just committed an armed robbery of an old lady and that he’d roughed her up and fondled her “private areas.” To you, though, I was the bad guy. “F*** You! All cops are murderers!” you screamed at me while impressionable little children looked on. Those kids had no way of knowing that I’d never pulled my gun from its holster other than to clean it or qualify at the range.

A police officer a thousand miles away did something to dishonor HIS badge, yet you blame me. Why? I didn’t come to arrest you when I caught your friend climbing in that lady’s bedroom window. I don’t run out to punch a random doctor in the face simply because a physician somewhere in Maine botches a surgery on a cop I don’t know personally. It’s not supposed to work that way in a civilized society. Besides you’ll never catch me defending a cop who knowingly breaks the law.

From A Cop’s Perspective: What You Didn’t See

Here’s what it’s like from my point of view.

When I’m off duty and our kids are on the field playing sports, or we’re both sitting side-by-side at a community picnic and it’s as if we’re best buddies. But the moment I put on the uniform I’m suddenly the enemy. Your enemy. And it’s for no reason—your transformation—other than my clothing and something I didn’t do, that your hatred for me begins to fester and boil over.

Believe me, I don’t change. But you do.

And I see it.

 

/by

Nursery Rhymes for Cops: Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe: Catch a Robber By the Toe, When He Hollers …

Every job has its difficulties. Police work is no different. In fact, I don’t believe there’s another job in the entire world that offers more opportunities to screw up than a career in law enforcement. Think about it. What other business provides its employees with high-powered weapons and live ammunition, a car that you can drive like a $29-dollar-a-day rental, and permission to squirt hot pepper juice in someone’s eyes when all they’ve done is try to bash in your skull? The major problem with each these quirky, but super attractive perks is that they come with a slight disadvantage, the possibility of having to take a human life, or losing your own.

To further complicate the loss of life factor is the split-second decision-making cops are faced with as a part of their everyday routine.

A plumber’s plans are laid out for him—hot on the left, cold on the right, and crap doesn’t flow uphill. Mechanics rely on a little sing-songy phrase about which direction to turn a wrench—Lefty Loosey and Tighty Righty (turn the wrench to the left to remove the bolt, or turn it to the right to tighten it).

But cops often operate in a world of gray. There are no handy-dandy nursery rhymes to guide officers through their tours of duty. But wouldn’t it be great if there were such a thing—a happy verse or two  to help relieve some of the pressure?

You know, like …

Police K-9

Hickory, dickory, dock,

The crook pulled out a Glock.

The cop shot once,

The thug fell down.

Hickory, dickory, dock.

Hey diddle diddle,

The crook stole a fiddle,

The thief jumped over the fence,

The little cop laughed to see such fun,

When his dog caught up with the goon.

 

New Picture (3)

This old man, he was dumb,

He sold crack vials to a bum,

In a locked up, paddy wagon,

Throw away the key;

This dumb guy ain’t coming home.

How much crack could a crackhead smoke if a crackhead could smoke crack?

Georgie Porgie, a ped-o-phile,

Kissed the girls and made them cry,

When the boys came out to play,

Georgie Porgie lost his mind.

Jack and Sam Went Up the Street,

To sell a stolen gun.

Jack took off and ran away,

So Sam went pocket picking.

Jim Plott could smoke no pot

His wife could snort no coke.

And so betwixt the two of them

They both stayed free and clean.

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,

Catch a robber by the toe.

When he hollers, take the dough,

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

Here We Go Round the Gangster’s House

Here we go round the gangster’s house,

The gangster’s house,

The gangster’s house,

Here we go round the gangster’s house,

So early in the morning.

 

This is the way we kick their doors,

Kick their doors,

Kick their doors.

This is the way we kick their doors

So early in the morning.

 

This is the way we cuff their wrists,

Cuff their wrists,

Cuff their wrists.

This is the way we cuff their wrists,

So early in the morning.

 

This is the way we lock them up,

Lock them up,

Lock them up,

This is the way we lock them up,

So early in the morning.

 

Here we go round the streets again,

The streets again,

The streets again.

Here we go round the streets again,

So early in the morning.

Tinkle tinkle little drunk,

How I wonder why you pee.

On the seat inside my car,

Like a river it does flow.

 

When you finish you then puke,

Vodka, whiskey, beer and rum,

Then you cuss and spit and fight,

Tinkle tinkle just ain’t right.

Little Boy’n Blue, put on your vest,

The crook’s in the shadows, the gun’s in his hand.

Where is the cop who looks after your back?

He’s lying in the alley, barely alive.

Will you go back? Yes, you must,

For if you don’t, he’s sure to die.

Polly Peters snatched a stack of speckled spectacles. Did Polly Peters snatch the stack of speckled spectacles?

If Polly Peters snatched a stack of speckled spectacles, where’s the stack of speckled spectacles Polly Peters snatched?

Pease-porridge hot, Pease-porridge cold,

Pease-porridge in the pot, nine days old;

Some liked it hot, left out to rot,

Some ate from the pot, died on the spot.

Finally, to the tune of “Five Little Indians” …

 

Five little bad guys punching on his head,

Man fell down and hit the ground.

Witness called the po-leece and the message said,

“We’re defunded ain’t nobody here.”

I know, I’m goofy …

 

/by