I want to tell you about the three arrests I made in the past 24 hours. That's right, ARRESTS. One for speeding, one for talking on a cell phone while driving, and one for drag racing. All witnessed by me, and all part of my dream to become an undercover traffic cop. I'd be the.best.cop.EVER. Of course, you wouldn't know I was there, because I'd be driving my 9 year old Saturn, looking like your average soccer mom. But that's the beauty of my dream job. You would feel free to commit your petty traffic crimes, unimpeded by fear of the long arm of the law.... right up until I whip out my loud speaker and slap that red flashing light on the roof of my car as I pull your ass over.
YOU: "Um, what kind of cop are you?"
ME: "The undercover kind, who just observed you make sixteen lane changes in the past mile, going 55 in a 30 mph speed zone, without so much as one turn signal. Please step out of the vehicle."
Think of my dream job as a public service. I'd happily write citations, because Lord knows that there are never any cops around when I observe the heinousness that is East Vancouver transit. I know where they all hide. Each and every little nook and cranny. But it's amazing to me that they're only in their hiding spots when I am tempted to break the law! Where are they at 12:30 am, when I am coming home from work watching cars break the law six ways until Sunday in the still of the night? Where are the cops when the cell-phone holding twit-bag driving the Land Rover tries to side swipe me during an un-signaled lane change and almost upends her top-heavy vehicle in the process? Anyone who drives a Land Rover should be shot anyway, and I noticed she chatted her way into the IHOP parking lot after our near-miss this morning. Honey, may all those pancakes go straight to your ass. You're welcome, and be glad that I didn't give you a ticket.