Pigs In A Snow Blanket

"A recent police study found that you're much more likely to get shot by a fat cop if you run."
- Dennis Miller

Or if you live in those weird and brave part of America such as Detroit, New Orleans, and central Nowhere, New Jersey.

The cold makes people desperate in this not-so-far North land. Bartenders have lost their ability to count, the hookers have halved their asking prices just for ten warm minutes in a car, and the Jews are worshipping at Christian churches to save gas money. Even the Heavy women are getting some love in the aftermath of this desolate holiday season. But not from me. No, my bruises have yet to fade, and until those tender purple souviners go the way of their blubbery maker, you won't catch me in the fleshy folds of another New Jersey Whale.

While the frigid air has never been enough to keep me from my Bar, this strange Fear is starting to get to me, and not even the toasty companions of Beam and Bass are easing the chill in spine. The Packers somehow let the game run down their leg, and with it all of my hope and Superbowl bets. Malaysia has officially outlawed short skirts. The legendary Gold Club of Atlanta is being transformed into a heathen house of churchy religion, replacing the naked female thigh with yet another gilded Cross. And true to form, having learned no lesson, that teenaged surfer girl has taken to the waves with her one good arm in an effort to confront her fears. Never mind the outrageous chances she might actually get attacked by a shark twice in her lifetime. After all, she's female, and those sea beasts can smell blood a mile away - even through cotton, leaving her paddling in a wide circle with a little trail of prepubescent boys wearing shark fins on their heads.

But fuck all that shit. Let me tell what happened to me last night.

After numerous run-ins with the law across this fine land, I've become a much more cautious man in my old age. I never drive drunk, always drive the speed limit, and never, ever bury the body within 100 miles of my house anymore. Lesson learned. This said, I have yet to attract the attention of the local law, instead lying low while my esteemed compatriots fall victim to their own excesses, and hope I don't get any blood on my clothes. So with a headful of bourbon, I laid my head down at midnight and was just settling into a perverse dream involving Sade, Dan, and the entire Zulu tribe when I heard my dear friend Anton scurrying around the kitchen and making a terrible ruckus. The clock said 3. My nocturnal emission would have to wait.

"What's going on in there?" I demanded, stumbling down the hall with still drunken stupor and my evening boner jutting out before me. The smells of catshit and canvas simultaneously assaulted me, raising both eyebrows and most of the venom stored in my stomach.

"Get down, man!" Anton hissed. "We have company." Knowing this man suffered from horrible delirium tremens and had served his country far too well, I forced myself to look into the kitchen, where the fiend was filling bags with cat litter and stacking them against my back window, in the flashing blue and red lights of trouble in Little Town, New Jersey.

What could have gone wrong? I asked as I retreated to the spare bedroom for a better look. Was it some angry husband? Or perhaps an incensed father looking for his daughter in my floorboards? Not one, but two police cruisers were in my lot downstairs, but I only saw one cop. Which meant...

WHAM WHAM WHAM

Death had finally come for me, in the form of a woman with a gun. Just below the window, an officer was peering through the back door, using her flashlight to find any excuse so she might forego the warrant and use force. I thought about the drugs in the breadbox, which I would have no time to eat or shove up my ass. The pictures on the computer's hard drive, which I would have no chance to erase, stacks of DVD's full of mischief and bootlegged interracial smut. Another round of beatings shook the walls, frightening Anton into the room, to whom I looked for a cigarette and an immediate explanation.

My sleep was a fitful one that night, visited not by African-American singers or Mandingo warriors, but a somewhat attractive police officer wearing a bandolier and boots, brandishing a pistol and speaking Italian. In fact, the sole distinguishing factor which betrayed my fantasy as a dream, was the fact her black eyes healed in five minutes, which allowed me to just keep giving her new ones until the alarm clock went off. And I never learned what brought the Authorities to my doorstep at that early doomed hour.

At least, not until the next day, when I was informed that some horrible rumor had somehow circulated through the law enforcement community, that disparaging remarks had been directed at the Police, and they were on the hunt. I was aghast, appalled that my address had somehow been chosen from database of terrorists and missing persons. Was I the sort of bastard who would publicly call the Law a bunch of "Communist Fuckers"? What sort of brazen man would dare compare the cops to a bunch of fire-happy grunts, filling our car with lead as if we were Iraqi outlaws? What sort of site would actually post such mindless drivel, publicly admitting wanton disrespect for law and authority, and could it be that some member of the PigPen was a fan of this site? These were all questions which would remain unanswered, though. In spite of these horrors, I have complete faith in the American system, and know justice shall be served with a swift blade.

Unless the sword was held in the hand of, say, a blindfolded vindictive woman, in which case all of heads will roll.