Fish and CHiPs

Ponch and John can kiss my ass.  I had been dreading this day for months and it finally arrived.  On occasion I pick up the morning school run since the wife’s schedule demands some flexibility in this regard.  Returning from such an outing, I found myself preoccupied with the laundry list of tasks that I would have to be completed in shorter order than normal due to this extra hour removed from my day.  So preoccupied was I that I had paid little attention to the posted speed limit when entering a small village just a stone’s throw from our home.  This did not go unnoticed by Officer Poncherello.  I was pinched and had nowhere to run.  Thoughts of flight passed through my head for a split second as the manner with which a traffic stop is executed here is much different than in the US.  They set up a speed trap and rather than pursue you in their vehicle after obtaining an elevated radar blip, they simply step out from their relatively hidden perch and motion you to pull over.  I seriously doubt that they would have pursued me if I had simply disobeyed, but this is a land of social order and I did what I was obliged to do.  Terror raced through my soul as I was waved to the side of the road to take what was coming to me.  As I pulled over, thoughts of foreign prison canings raced through my head and I was certain I would soon have the right if not the ability to remain silent.  The wife would certainly be less than impressed with the prospect of relinquishing her hard earned capital to bail my ass out of jail and I wasn’t even sure I knew how to ask for my one phone call in French.

I came to a stop and rolled down the window.  The cop simply stuck his radar gun in my face to indicate my infraction.  Strike One!  He then asked for my registration which I fumbled around for in the disorganized chaos that is my glove box.  I finally located the document and also provided him with my paper receipt for the drivers license that I have yet to receive.  For good measure I also threw in my Kansas Drivers License in the event my receipt wasn’t enough.  He seemed satisfied with the paperwork until he strolled to the front of my vehicle to take a look at my license plate.  I was immediately asked to remove myself from the vehicle.  Strike Two!  He kindly informed me that my plate number was incorrect and that I needed to have a new plate made.  This was a fact that I was unaware of as I was lead to believe that the plate that was on the vehicle when I purchased it would transfer with the vehicle.  Apparently that is incorrect.  Who knew?  The concept of the plate transferring with the vehicle seemed weird to me at the time, but who am I to second guess their procedures?

Upon further inspection of my paperwork, good ole Ponch noted that the address on my French Driver’s License didn’t match that on my vehicle registration . . . Strike Three mother fucker . . . YOU’RE OUT!  He held up his hand indicating three infractions and stated something I didn’t quite catch in a rather unpleasant tone.  He then asked me to return to my vehicle to remove my personal items and follow him around the corner.  I assumed it would be there that we would find the Black Maria waiting to cart me off to Chateau D’If, where I would join Edmond Dantes to endure a lifetime of suffering for my poor judgment.  As we rounded the corner, there stood Officer Baker writing up some other poor slob who had been caught in the same snare that had removed me from the road just moments ago.  Still uncertain of my fate, but less certain that I would go to jail, I waited politely as Ponch punched my details into the tiny computer console aboard his Beemer.  As an interesting side note and nod to the fact that my brain is full of absolutely useless facts, do you all happen to know the difference between a Beemer and a Bimmer?  BMW enthusiasts will get this in a flash.  For those that don’t know, BMW actually got it’s start on two wheels.  The natural proving ground for both motorcycle AND automotive tech has always been the racetrack.  At the time, the motorcycle racing circuit was dominated by two brands . . . BMW and BSA.  A form of slang naturally grew from within the pits, and BMWs became known as Beemers while the BSA’s would be called Beesers.  Once BMWs automotive division was up and running, true enthusiasts were not about to refer to the 4 wheeled second cousin by the same affectionate moniker and thus, the term Bimmer was born.  So, now you know . . . every Yuppie you have ever encountered that referred to his car as a "Beemer" was exactly the kind of douche bag you took him for to start with.

At any rate, Ponch finished logging in my information with a question or two about where I was from. My quaint attempt at French and likeable demeanor soon had us joking like old friends and I was released with just a speeding ticket and a warning about the other infractions.  I promised to take care of the other details immediately and bid the boys from the CHP a very pleasant day.  As they say, all is well that ends well and I am proud to say that despite the fact that I now drive through these little towns like I am driving Miss Daisy, the boys still cheer when they here I have the morning commute.  Riding with Dad is much more fun apparently, or so they tell me.  I personally think they just want to be there in person when I finally get arrested.  For now I will take it as a compliment, and enjoy the extra hour I get to have the boys’ captive attention.  That is all I have for today.  Take care and drive safe.  Zatarra.