20 November 2005

Rectum? Damn near killed him!

My youth was somewhat aimless. For years, I wandered through a series of jobs trying to find my life’s niche.

I would have to say, the poorest fit was traffic warden. This was after my freshman year, during which I had earned an impressive GPA of 1.19, and was invited by the university to “Expand my horizons… elsewhere”.

Amazingly, very few people were willing to hire a lazy 18 year old smart-arse, so I took a job as a traffic warden.

I was given a day of training, issued an orange vest, booking pad and armed with a police whistle and a red coned plastic torch. We we’re to whistle at the motoring evil-doers and use our lit "batons" to pull them over for a ticket. Yes. It worked about as well as you would imagine.

Now, being somewhat less motivated than the average teenager, I soon earned the enmity of my supervisor, one Sergeant Cafferty. He’d been on the “force” for almost 20 years and had heaved his bulk up through the ranks to his exalted position. “Evil,” He said to me “I’m putting you on the night shift, next to me so I can watch you. You are not going to sully my beloved Traffic Safety Corps!” Tosser.

So there I was, one chill, foggy night when a black beemer bore down on me at high speed. I whistled, and indicated him to pull over, and was rather surprised when he did so. I walked up to the car as the tinted window slid down. It was then that I noticed the shotgun. It was huge and pointed at my groin.

“You are going to take that damn whistle and shove it up your arse!”

No way! Was he serious? Well, yes, it turns out he was.

When he was satisfied with the insertion, he tore off to the north towards Sgt. Cafferty’s post.

Sod it. I didn’t need the job that badly. I radioed ahead to the fat bastard.

“Sergeant!” I said. “There’s a fellow in a black BMW driving like a maniac towards you. Don’t try and whistle him to a stop; he won’t listen. Use your baton.” He grunted acknowledgement.



The chill night air carried a ghost of his indignant bellow, and then a hint of sobbing. He loved that baton. I listened for a moment before abandoning my post, and turning in the balance of my gear at the station.

I walked home that night, if not with a jaunty step, then at least with a whistle.


And that's the way I likes it.