Stupidity plain and simple

Sometimes, I should just shut up, or,

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how I talked myself into a speeding ticket.

Back in the ’70s…

I was north of Valentine, Nebraska. It was cloudy. Cold. A north wind was blowing. It was early spring, if I remember right. I was headed south on U.S. 83. I was speeding. A lot.

Lights in the rearview. Siren. The whole shebang.

-Hello, officer.

-Yeah.

-That fast? I didn’t think this would go that fast.

-Yeah, it’s cold all right.

-I’m headed down the road a bit into Valentine to get warmed up.

-No, not overnight. I’m trying to make Vegas.

And that, dear reader, was my instant downfall. I could tell by the sudden flash of recognition that actually crossed his entire face. I was a goner. He knew I had cash, and he was going to get some of it for the municipality of Valentine. Right now.

He wrote me up for something like 75 in a 60, then handed me the ticket and told me that I could mail in the money today if I wanted to. Not being a complete dummy, I acquiesced and put a wad of cash into an envelope, which he watched me seal and that I held onto. He told me to follow him into Valentine and to pull up behind him at a mailbox, where he took the envelope from me and then dropped it into the box.

End of story.

Did the cash end up in Valentine’s coffers?

I have no idea.

Did I think of phoning city hall to find out?

Not at all.

Would I today, if it happened the same way?

You betcha.

And ever since, when I’m north of Valentine, I try to keep it to 5 over.

*     *     *

Lost wages. The City That Never Sleeps. Circus Circus was going to be my destination. Or maybe Caesar’s Palace. Neither of which happened. First stop: a liquor store. I ended up drunk in some two-story with orange paint around the door frames and windows. Damned if I can remember the name of the place. I think it started with an S. Or maybe a B.

Or not.

Anyone else know the name of the place?

I can’t ask my buddy. He’s dead now.

I know we had one helluva time, because we left there broke and hung over like the sons of bitches that we both were back then — but not before we spent our last twenties at two whorehouses on the way by.

Rules

Lights and siren behind you?

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It’s winter up here, and although we’ve been in the midst of chinook weather for weeks now, it’s still not rideable, and won’t be for the foreseeable future. Thus I am inclined to be riding the web in search of diversions. I came across this article in Car and Driver:

What to do during a traffic stop:

  • Pull to the right at the first safe opportunity, then turn off your engine.
  • Stay in your car with your seat belt fastened. Roll down your window. Turn off the radio. Don’t even think about touching your cell phone.
  • Place your hands on top of the steering wheel and sit quietly. Ask passengers to remain silent.
  • Retrieve license, registration, and proof of insurance only when asked to do so.
  • Answer questions succinctly. Avoid arguing, cursing, or interrupting when the officer speaks to you.

That all sounds about right to me.

Rules

Dumbing down

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I must admit that I’ve been pulled over numerous times, but I’ve (almost) never received a ticket*.

Lucky? Perhaps. But smart too. (I hope.)

I keep my hands in plain view. I talk nice. I act nice.

When the officer asks for my license, I tell him where I’m going to put my hands to retrieve it.

If  my wallet is in my saddle bag, I tell  him, thus giving him an opportunity to place himself where he can see what I’m doing.

If I’ve been in the saddle for the better part of the day when the stop occurs, I try to treat it as a break from riding, and after the business is done, I attempt to engage the officer in conversation removed from his job. I call that de-stressing — for both of us. I’ll ask him about a decent place to eat or an inexpensive place to stay down the road. Usually he’ll take the time to engage in the banter, sometimes not.

By then, of course, it doesn’t matter.

I can get back on the road with no ticket.

—————–

*Except for that one time north of Valentine, Nebraska back in ’72 while on my way to Vegas. I talked myself into that one. Story to follow.

Politics, Stupidity plain and simple

Suck it up, buttercup

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Updated below.

An elementary school principal in New Brunswick has decided that O Canada (Canada’s national anthem, for those of you who don’t watch hockey) should not be played or participated in during class time.

Word.

Dumbass.

My suggestion for elementary school principal Erik Millett, the failed Green Party candidate and late-to-the-party hippie, is to suck it up, buttercup. Set your children free by allowing them to sing the national anthem. Millett’s reasoning surely must be affected by his inability to comprehend what country he resides, given that some children attending the school have relatives that were killed while serving in Afghanistan.

Link to article here, here and a blog article here.

Rex Murphy takes a common-man look at the entire inclusive stupidity here.

——————-

The uninitiated among you should be made aware that Canada may be the only country in the world that will boo its own national anthem. This supposed travesty will occur any time an NHL team from Quebec travels to English Canada, particularly Alberta. The reason? The anthem is sung in French.

Yes, I know.

But it’s uniquely Canadian.

——————-

Update: On February 1, school superintendent Zoe Watson ordered that the daily singing of O Canada be reinstated. Mr. Millet was given a chance to reverse his policy voluntarily, but he refused any response to the request.

Now there’s a guy who isn’t the brightest lightbulb in the room.

Politics, Stupidity plain and simple

I just can’t resist a final dig

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Actual health experts on abstinence education all agree that teaching it is not effective. That doesn’t discourage the circus known as “abstinence education” in Ohio from participating.

It’s no wonder abstinence education doesn’t work when even a clown can’t get his costume right. Audience and purpose notwithstanding, any clown who came to my party without makeup would be shown the door post-haste.

Riding farther, seeing more