I likes monologues. Diary entries are fun.
September 22, 2008
Dear Diary:
Most of the guys call me Peter, but they don’t say Peter normal. They say, “PEEEE ter.” Even the captain does it. Sometimes I worry they don’t know my real name is Harold, or Harry. I prefer Harold – but I’d take Harry over Peter any day.
Before the Mardi Gras where a guy peed on me nobody really noticed me – I was just another bike cop, blending into the background, working my beat. When I got peed on, everything changed. Maybe it was my fault – I don’t know, it’s hard to say. I think about it everyday.
With the whole city buzzing about the biggest Marti Gras since Katrina, I was happy to be assigned as an extra patrol down at the parade route. Now normally – from what I understand since it was my first year – Mardi Gras is a few days where we just sorta throw public urination tickets out the window and make sure people go in alleys or somewhere out of the way.
That’s all I was trying to do. I tapped the guy –a hulking galoot of a man with a Gold Gym muscle shirt – on his shoulder and I nicely asked him to stop peeing in the storm drain. He had his penis in his hand and was already peeing a thick yellow stream in front of a group of teenagers. All I wanted to do was point him in the direction of a dumpster not more than five feet away, but the big oaf turned and started peeing all over me. What made it worse is he made eye contact and then started circling his penis like a thick, veiny wand with a syrupy urine spraying all over my bare knees. All I did was stand there, holding my 10 speed with my bike helmet cocked a bit on the side of my head, looking foolish.
“Okay real funny, why don’t you finish up behind that dumpster over there,” I said. What made it even worse were my feet – they felt cemented to the asphalt and I couldn’t move as the big brute violated me in front of my partner. And worst of all was my partner, laughing and pointing at me (he said he forgot his helmet, but I think he was purposely breaking protocol) with the group of teenagers (who were drinking alcohol I should add) who all had their fancy phones out filming and pointing.
“Peter?” my partner asked (come to think of it he may not even know my real name), “what the f-bomb are you doing?”(I should point out he actually said the f-word) Then without even taking my feeling into account he looked over at one of the teen age girls with a her shirt pulled up so high any one could see the bottom curvature of her bosom, “You gotta sent that to me,” he said to her “here’s my cell phone number.”
A few weeks later he got that girl pregnant and convinced her to get an abortion, but are any of the guys talking about that? No sir! They all replay the video like it’s one of Bob Saget’s Best of Funniest Home Video Bloopers (Gosh I love that show – why ABC? Why ever let Mr. Saget slip through your fingers!).
Let me tell you – it is not a Funniest Home Video! It was one of the worst days of my life whenever I think of it....Well....Let’s just say the rash on my calf seems to act up.
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