At some point after buying SuperFuzz Bigmuff Plus Early Singles I decide to buy a Mudhoney bumper sticker, looked similar though not the same as what I have pictured here. And then, because the shiny chromium bumper to my black 1977 Malibu with the Edelbrock intakes and the dual exhaust was too full of punk rock and metal stickers to accept any more, I decided to affix it instead to my passenger dashboard.
Then, and wait it gets good, one Christmas season, I’m going out to see my sister, and she asks me to stop by the mall on the way in, to pick up some kind of cake or something, and being a complete dumbass, I say alright.
It takes me 30 minutes to park at the stupid mall, and another ¾ of an hour to pick up the stupid cake, and by the time I get the fuck out of this clusterfuck of a commercial emporium, I am totally pissed off–pissed at my sister for asking me to do do this, pissed at myself for agreeing, and pissed at the stupid Christian world for being snookered by this Christmas bullshit and wasting my goddamned time.
Ok, fine. So I’m driving a bit, shall we say, aggressively, and I, you know, tag someone, sideswipe them in the quarter panel. Bad deal, but to make it worse, because I’m so pissed off at my stupid-ass Christmas-mall experience, I decide it would be a good idea to hit the gas pedal hard and flee the scene.
I’m out of there quick, but so what? They got cameras and helicopters and pussy ass informants, so they pulled me over about three miles away behind an abandoned shopping mall.
So, we do the can-I-step-out-of-car thing, and then the assume-the-position-thing, and the search-my-crotch-and-pantlegs-for-drugs thing, and they were disappointed: not only did I not have pot upon my person, my license and insurance were in good standing.
Then, one of the three–or was it four, Christ these cops are like roaches–officers opens the passenger door, and gets a gander at my Mudhoney swag, plastered across my maroon dashboard.
“HEY HEY,” I swear to God he said, “get a load of this, guys. ‘Hate the Police.’”
There then commenced a 90-minute, excruciatingly thorough, search of my my beloved black Malibu. Seeing as I had long hair and the look of the car I drove, and the fact that I was no doubt wearing some T-shirt with a speedmetal band’s name on it, they had to assume the drugs would be found somewhere.
I watched them from the backseat of the police car, pissed off at them, pissed off at myself for committing a hit-and-fucking run like a dumbshit and (as I’ve already said) pissed off at my sister and at our stupid fucking commercial Christian society.
But I knew they weren’t going to find drugs, anyway, and that made me kind of smile. I was 27 or 28 at this point, and I’d quit smoking pot because I’d gotten tired of feeling paranoid every time I smoked.
Amazingly enough, I didn’t even go down to the station. They didn’t like my fucking bumper sticker, but they’d also said almost first thing, that I was lucky the other driver hadn’t been hurt, so I wouldn’t be going to jail. That was before they saw the Mudhoney bumper sticker, though, and I guess I was lucky that the pigs didn’t decide to go back on their word.
So they let me drive off, it was kind of weird as I pulled away, let me tell you, and eventually, like two hours late, I got to my sister’s house. But her fucking cake was ruined: in my flee from justice, I’d taken one or more corners kind of fast, and the thing in its white cardboard box had been flung against that same dashboard, and it got squashed.
I was so freaked out about the whole thing that I actually hired this Jew lawyer, Al Goodman, no shit, friend of my grandfather, to defend me in court. The sonofabitch didn’t even bother to show up, but then again, neither did any of the cops.
So I walked, with just the story to tell. And I do so here.