News of the Stoopid

Cops and Writers

DuhMoines, Iowa [NotS]

A couple of years ago, I wrote one of these things regarding the big REPORT DRUNK DRIVERS bit on those digital information thingys all along the freeways in Denver. That News of the Stoopid, for better or worse, no longer exists.
One thing I mentioned in that article was that I generally get on well enough with the police, assuming they don’t do anything dumb. Ever since, I’ve been thinking of illustrating exactly what I meant by ‘dumb’.
Now, I think, is the time for that.
Here’s a good example: my licence expired. Fine. I wasn’t exactly expecting time to stop just before my birthday, so the expiration didn’t much surprise me. It also didn’t much concern me. It also didn’t much occur to me. And it furthermore didn’t much get noticed until a Des Moines Police Offender–um…Officer–pulled me over and took it oddly personally that I hadn’t renewed the thing. To me, it was odd. First, I don’t really understand why the cops take it personally when a crime is committed; it’s not like they get fired every time crime refuses to grind to a halt–more likely, they’d be laid off if we ever attained true world peace. Moreover, I really can’t figure out why a cop in Des Moines particularly cares whether anyone in Denver has a current driver’s licence. I don’t expend a lot of concern on whether someone in Indiana has updated his fishing licence lately, after all.
Anyway, he wasn’t at all pleased to discover that my Denverian licence had outlived its usefulness.
Also not at the top of his happy list were my expired number plates. There again, these are expired Denverian number plates, which don’t directly affect anyone in Des Moines.
Granted, giving out tickets for expired licenses and number plates is all part of a cop’s job; but this idiot didn’t even realise that my plates had expired when he pulled me over for having a functional number plate light. Or, in more explained terms, pulled me over to tell me that the thing had burned out, apparently assuming that I’d never notice that he’d lied to me. And it didn’t take long to notice, since he had me get out of the car to talk to him while his partner searched through the Formula for whatever Iowans consider weapons. No weapons were found. For those who have ever seen the Formula, you can guess that even if there had been weapons in there, they’d never be found. Hoffa would be found long before running into any carelessly stashed rocket launchers I might carry about in my car.
So: Officer Smith [his real surname, believe it or not] pulled me over for having a functional number plate light, searched through my car without discovering any munitions, and wrote me a ticket for having everything expired. Great. The story should end now.
But it didn’t.
So, since I have better things to do than fly home just to renew a licence, I gave in and got a DesMoiniac licence, so I can legally drive the hell back home [and just in time; I almost forgot how to drive, since there's a documentable connexion between able and allowed when it comes to things like steering] once I’m done here. But, for whatever deplorable reason, I’m not done here yet.
So Agent Smith pulled me over again. This time, it was because my headlight had burned out. And the first thing he told me, in the midst of taking it all far too personally, was that he’d already told me to fix my headlight, the last time he’d pulled me over. Evidently the ‘last time’ he’d pulled me over was back when I had that pesky functional number plate light. Of course, I tried to tell him that, if my headlight was actually out [it was, incidentally] that was the first time anyone had told me about it; but that was met with the tired old talk to the badge cos the brain ain’t working attitude, and the conversation kinda moved on to how my functioning number plate light hadn’t been fixed yet either.
Oh, and my number plates are still expired.
There’s a reason for that. And if Agent Smith had exhibited the interest and vocabulary to listen, things might have worked out differently. See, as difficult as it might be to get a renewed driver’s licence from out of state [as much as the Department of Transportation love to boast that they can handle that sort of thing] it should be simple enough to have a registration renewed by–well, not EMail, since the Department of Motor Vehicles have only recently discovered fire and are soon expected to work out the agricultural revolution–but by snailmail or by phone or by smoke signals or by whatever means they’re prepared to handle in nineteen ninety-nine. Oddly, despite numerous calls to these idiots, and copious promises that the plates could be sent to my agent here in Des Moines, I never seemed to get hold of them. What I’ve finally found out–just now–is that my registration for the emissions control distraction has also expired; and, while I don’t need to care about that in Des Moines, I can’t get new Denverian number plates until my car is tested–in Denver–for parts per million. How in hell I’m supposed to get it back to Denver to have it tested, so I can get new plates, so I can drive across Nebraska to get it tested, is beyond even the mathematical possibilities of quantum mechanics. Surprise.
Meanwhile, according to Agent Smith, I have until Friday to figure that out. Or else. Whatever that means.
The headlight is probably more within the boundaries of possibility, so I’m not terribly concerned about fixing the problem, though I really am wondering why I got a ticket for something I couldn’t even have known was wrong. That’s a lot like having someone break into your house, and getting a ticket for not stopping them or something. I thought the cops worked for us.
The number plate light, as always, works fine. Agent Smith knows that too. When he had me get out of the car the second time, I went back to look at it, and he was helpful enough to shine his torch at it to make sure I couldn’t instantly determine whether it was working. He knew I’d caught him not catching me, essentially. That made him a bit grumpier.
Meanwhile, he asked, without any logical provocation, whether I had any drugs, weapons, or–and I’m not making this up–big snakes in the car. Why would I have a big snake in my car? Sure, I’ve had big alligators in there, but never snakes. Anyway, after I told him I was fresh out of drugs, guns, and large boidae, he told me that I wouldn’t mind then if he searched my car again. And that’s interesting. Since that was a declarative, and not an interrogative, I didn’t bother granting or denying his request, which, it turns out, means that he didn’t search my car, because I didn’t tell him he could. So he searched my car anyway. And he found nothing. Surprise again.
The last time I ran into this sort of harassment with a cop was ten years ago, when I got pulled over for wearing a seatbelt. Or, more accurately, I was wearing it, but Stoopid couldn’t tell that since it was a nineteen seventy-four LeSabre convertible and they were lapbelts. So he searched the Buick [though he didn't search any of us, which was kinda cool, since that's where all the weapons were] and finally produced a foot-long balsawood dowelrod and declared that, according to Iowans, it was a weapon. Then he threw it into a random frontyard and gave up on us. Idiot.
At least he never pulled me over again.
As for Agent Smith: I’m sure he’ll run into me again. And my functioning number plate light will probably be out during that magical moment between him pulling me over and me going back there to look at it. And that’s the sort of legal behaviour which leads me to a few points…
First: I live in Denver. I don’t care where my licence is from, or my number plates; if unfortunate circumstances mandate that they come from a place like Des Moines, then so be it. Still, I’m a citisen of Denver. Bear that in mind.
Second: because I’m a citisen of Denver, I don’t pay income taxes in Des Moines [whether I pay them in Denver is irrelevant to this] and I never will. My company is based in Denver. Regardless where I am in the world, that’s where I am at the corporate level. So I’m not actually paying Agent Smith’s salary. That’s the good news.
Third: while Agent Smith doesn’t represent the Denver County Department of Motor Vehicles, neither do I; and I refuse to accept responsibility for their idiocy regarding renewal policies.
Fourth: this all ties together because Agent Smith wants to believe that I’ve moved to Des Moines. I haven’t. I have no reportable income from this town; I’m here researching a novel. I told one cop that I was researching a novel on what dumb cops do to smart people; now that I’m writing this, that could be considered true. Anything else I do here is recreational. Even website design is done in cyberspace, and laundered through the office in Denver. Des Moines is irrelevant to my wherewithal. I’m effectively on holiday here, and have no need to become an Iowan at all. And if it’s possible to automatically become a denisen of a city the instant you enter it, then I’d have to have stopped in every town between Denver and Des Moines to reregister my address, and every time I go into West Des Moines, or Clive, or Urbandale, or whatever suburb, I’d have to update all my papers. I live in Denver. Accept it.
I suppose I could just go home to Denver. That’s an option. It’s not the sort of option Des Moines would prefer, of course. Income tax or not, I’ve probably spent more than Agent Smith makes annually [at least on paper] on various junk since I got here. But if Des Moines and Iowa would prefer that I go home and stop helping their economy, that’s always an option.
There are lots of options.
Now, I don’t wanna go off on a rant here, but you’re being lied to about the purpose of the police. Sure, the advert wizards promise that their function is to serve and to protect, but that never seems to happen. They don’t serve. Try to get a cup of coffee out of one sometime; it never, ever happens. And worse, if you try to give them a tip, they think it’s a bribe. There’s no service involved in this. Granted, you can occasionally give them a tip in exchange for protection, so that element of the job can exist under the correct circumstances; but, in general, they’re not real protective either.
If cops are really supposed to be a service industry, we should be able to fire them. We should be able to dock them for insubordination. We should be able to demand our money back. We should be able to reserve the right to be served by a competitor. Cops aren’t a service industry; they’re a monopoly bent on world domination. And it’s time for that to end.
New rules:
If you pull me over for something, prove it. Pull me over for speeding, prove it. Or, the ticket you wrote becomes exhibit A in my libel suit. Do you really want to play by the letter of the law? Fine by me. My lawyer can beat up your lawyer.
You don’t have permission to search my car. If you search it anyway, you’re breaking and entering.
You don’t have permission to touch me. If you touch me anyway, it’s assault and battery.
You don’t have permission to fine me. If you fine me anyway, it’s extortion.
You don’t have permission to pull me over. If you pull me over anyway, it’s stalking.
You don’t have permission to talk to me. If you talk to me anyway, it’s verbal assault.
I’m done playing games with these idiots. I’m not going to redefine the things I say down to the vernacular, just so they can understand them. We’re talking about a gang whose colours are black and navy, which anyone in the fashion world will tell you is a bad combination.
If you want to bother someone, go bother the little twerps in the silly Japanese economy cars with the roller skates for tyres and the sonic warfare radios. Go bother the ubiquitous drunks who beleaguer the polysyllabic writers in restaurants. Go bother someone who’s actually doing something illegal. Don’t pick on those of us who aren’t actively committing a crime just because you assume we’re safe. We’re not. Smart people are never safe; we’re just sneaky enough to appear safe until it’s too late. Sorry if that infringes on your copyrights somehow.
Bad cop; no pension.
That’s just my opinion; those are still legal, I think…

–Gremlin

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