There has been a long, proud, historical tradition of reasonable men being forced to actually write down the most painfully obvious shit for the benefit of those who really should have been weeded out by Darwinian selection for the sake of the species. Things like: "Don't attempt to stop chain with your genitals". If you need me to clarify, perhaps what kind of chain (chainsaw, bicycle, Nicolas Cage as The Ghost Rider) then you are the problem we're talking about. I cannot think of any single chain, moving or stationary, that I want to impede using my genitals. Having said that, I'm sure there's a porn website for it.
With that in mind, I really need to stress that jail is not the time, nor the place to be meeting members of the opposite sex. And yet, I find myself increasingly having to separate inmates, not because they're fighting, but because they have come to think of jail as some kind of dating site. Lulu love shack I guess (Bonus points if you can guess where I've been working based on that name). If you go to jail for something minor, it is not a safe assumption that everybody there is in for something minor. That woman you might be chatting up in the intake line might be here for some tickets she didn't pay, or maybe she just gutted her now ex-boyfriend in the bathtub. I really shouldn't have to explain that. It really should be obvious based on the context of where you are; namely, in jail.
So, if this article was informative and you learned not to stop the chain with your genitals, or pick up opposite digits in jail, then please don't ever breed. Ever.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Friday, July 12, 2013
Reasons to Walk Your Own Penis Across the Road
I'll be honest, I've got nothing. I met a man who was literally walking his penis across the street, before he assaulted a random person in said street. When I say he was walking his penis, I mean he was walking with his fly down, and his penis in his right hand as he crossed the street. My partner and myself were only able to come up with a couple theories before he started punching folks and we had to arrest him.
He was giving his penis a pep talk, telling it to keep its head up.
His penis is a frightened child and needs to hold someone's hand while crossing a street.
His penis functions as a dowsing rod to find liquor/drugs.
Alas, we'll probably never know why he was walking his penis across the street.
He was giving his penis a pep talk, telling it to keep its head up.
His penis is a frightened child and needs to hold someone's hand while crossing a street.
His penis functions as a dowsing rod to find liquor/drugs.
Alas, we'll probably never know why he was walking his penis across the street.
The Holiest of Spirits
In the Bible, it is written that Jesus would seek out the sick, the possessed, the infirm, the lame, and the blind and cure them of their ailments. In the Bible it is also written that "blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called Sons of God" (Matt 5:9). So, by the transitive property we establish that Jesus could lay hands upon the people and cure them of what ails them because he is the Son of God; therefore I (and any other officer) may do the same, as we are the peacekeepers and so the Sons of God.
With that introduction I'd like to talk about the Holy Spirit of Policing, which we call the Spirit of Slap. Every now and then we come across a man (and it's usually a man) who suffers greatly from a disease. It is a disease that paramedics and doctors find themselves ill-equipped to treat. It is a disease of the mind, yet no psychologist, nor psychiatrist, has found a treatment or cure. Only the police and corrections have determined a (temporary) cure for this disease. The disease is known by many names. Cranial-rectal insertion. Fecal encephalitis. Head-in-ass syndrome. I call it Asshattery. And, like Jesus before us, we lay hands upon these people in their time of need, to cure them of their ailment. Where Jesus was the Son of God and had the power of the Holy Spirit in Him, we turned to the Spirit of Slap. The Spirit of Slap occurs when the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost descend from Heaven to a choir of angels, and gently alight upon the shoulders of the officer in need. The Spirit of Slap grants the strength of God Himself to the backhand being delivered by the officer until his fist collides with the asshat's head, generally causing it to explode in teeth, snot, and holy light (sometimes). Having been delivered from the clutches of asshattery, the suspect is then removed to a local hospital, so that his more basic ailments can be healed as well, in addition to the side effects of laying on of hands.
I will lay hands on you, and you will be healed. Nobody said how long it would take, or what you'd look like after. Or if I need a team of surgeons to piece your face back together.
With that introduction I'd like to talk about the Holy Spirit of Policing, which we call the Spirit of Slap. Every now and then we come across a man (and it's usually a man) who suffers greatly from a disease. It is a disease that paramedics and doctors find themselves ill-equipped to treat. It is a disease of the mind, yet no psychologist, nor psychiatrist, has found a treatment or cure. Only the police and corrections have determined a (temporary) cure for this disease. The disease is known by many names. Cranial-rectal insertion. Fecal encephalitis. Head-in-ass syndrome. I call it Asshattery. And, like Jesus before us, we lay hands upon these people in their time of need, to cure them of their ailment. Where Jesus was the Son of God and had the power of the Holy Spirit in Him, we turned to the Spirit of Slap. The Spirit of Slap occurs when the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost descend from Heaven to a choir of angels, and gently alight upon the shoulders of the officer in need. The Spirit of Slap grants the strength of God Himself to the backhand being delivered by the officer until his fist collides with the asshat's head, generally causing it to explode in teeth, snot, and holy light (sometimes). Having been delivered from the clutches of asshattery, the suspect is then removed to a local hospital, so that his more basic ailments can be healed as well, in addition to the side effects of laying on of hands.
I will lay hands on you, and you will be healed. Nobody said how long it would take, or what you'd look like after. Or if I need a team of surgeons to piece your face back together.
The Glossary of Political Terminology
This is somewhat off the beaten track, but I feel like perhaps it will be useful. Also, I'm no longer a police officer (though paradoxically I'm still a licensed peace officer in my state, and will remain so) so I only have my archived BS stories to share instead of meeting new and interesting people, and mocking them here.
A major part of the problem of modern politics, and life perhaps, is that people no longer remember what words mean. Words have a shocking power, to alter the very reality around us. Just as the past defines our present, it is unfortunate to find that the present can easily alter the past. The notion that 26 letters and a handful of punctuation, as Mr. Gaiman would say, can craft a tale to outlast civilizations should be downright frightening. So, remember this the next time you encounter someone who professes to have power over you.
Policeman: Root comes from greek word polis, meaning city-state. Thus, policeman literally becomes cityman, or man of the city. It's important to remember that the police are people. They don't work for you, the citizen, because they are you, and as importantly, you are them. They work for the city. And it's important to establish what a city is, lest you think that a city is no more than the bureaucracy that you're forced to deal with to build in your backyard, or to put up a fence, or pay a ticket.
City: Root from French word cite, which was a community of peoples. The city isn't the administration. It's not the mayor, or the city council, or the lands, or the population. The city is the unspoken contract between the peoples that they shall live here together in peace.
Politician: Base word politic, a Greek word for the voting body, or body of citizens, and suffix "ian" meaning belonging to or pertaining to. Thus a politician is one who belongs to the body of voters. They were basically slaves whose only job was to effectively petition for the betterment of his constituents. There was no career path, no future in such a job. You simply did your civic duty, and went back to what you did before, usually farming. It's no wonder that in the Roman days political office came through a system not unlike our own jury selection, rather than through men seeking office. If we somehow barred any who would want political power from ever having political power, I suspect virtually every government related issue would vanish in short order.
Right: A right, like the right to life, liberty, and property, is a negative right. This means that your right to life bars any from depriving you of life. Your right to your property means that none may take your property without your consent. What it is not is a positive right. A positive right would be a right to property, therefore someone must provide you with property.
As I think of more terms, I will put them here. If you would like something defined, leave it in a comment.
A major part of the problem of modern politics, and life perhaps, is that people no longer remember what words mean. Words have a shocking power, to alter the very reality around us. Just as the past defines our present, it is unfortunate to find that the present can easily alter the past. The notion that 26 letters and a handful of punctuation, as Mr. Gaiman would say, can craft a tale to outlast civilizations should be downright frightening. So, remember this the next time you encounter someone who professes to have power over you.
Policeman: Root comes from greek word polis, meaning city-state. Thus, policeman literally becomes cityman, or man of the city. It's important to remember that the police are people. They don't work for you, the citizen, because they are you, and as importantly, you are them. They work for the city. And it's important to establish what a city is, lest you think that a city is no more than the bureaucracy that you're forced to deal with to build in your backyard, or to put up a fence, or pay a ticket.
City: Root from French word cite, which was a community of peoples. The city isn't the administration. It's not the mayor, or the city council, or the lands, or the population. The city is the unspoken contract between the peoples that they shall live here together in peace.
Politician: Base word politic, a Greek word for the voting body, or body of citizens, and suffix "ian" meaning belonging to or pertaining to. Thus a politician is one who belongs to the body of voters. They were basically slaves whose only job was to effectively petition for the betterment of his constituents. There was no career path, no future in such a job. You simply did your civic duty, and went back to what you did before, usually farming. It's no wonder that in the Roman days political office came through a system not unlike our own jury selection, rather than through men seeking office. If we somehow barred any who would want political power from ever having political power, I suspect virtually every government related issue would vanish in short order.
Right: A right, like the right to life, liberty, and property, is a negative right. This means that your right to life bars any from depriving you of life. Your right to your property means that none may take your property without your consent. What it is not is a positive right. A positive right would be a right to property, therefore someone must provide you with property.
As I think of more terms, I will put them here. If you would like something defined, leave it in a comment.
How to go to the mental hospital free of charge
Heroine is a bitch. I've never done heroine, but I have met many many people who have and it strikes me as a bitch. You know, when you see someone from a distance and, even though you've never spoken to them, you can just tell (somehow, maybe it's the way they stand, or abuse oxygen, or they're that Joffrey kid from Game of Thrones) that this person is a total bitch. Maybe they have a bitch reputation. But heroine is a bitch. If, after this, you feel the need to go do heroine because you feel you can't bash something unless you've tried it, let me know how castration treats you. Combine mental illness, such as clinical depression, or schizophrenia, with heroine and you're gonna have a bad time. So, I meet this young enterprising lunatic crack whore. I don't use the term "crack whore" pejoratively, as this is actually her profession. She is standing there, telling me that the scars on her arms are from when she used to be suicidal. Due diligence being what it is, I ask if she's still suicidal. "No no, I'm cured. I don't hurt myself anymore." She then reaches into her own ear, gashes it open and starts playing with the blood. I don't mean this happened after I left. I mean, right there while talking to us, she gashed her own ear open. You can't tell me that you're not going to self harm, and then self harm in front of me and two other cops. You will end up in the hospital, and you will stay there until the voices shut the hell up for at least an hour. That's a lie. I know they'll toss her out to come back to her heroine house in a matter of hours.
Friday, June 28, 2013
How to Steal a Rolls-Royce
I won't go into why it's a bad idea to even have a Rolls dealership anywhere near anything with the words "Section 8" anywhere within twenty miles. You shouldn't even have a bus stop nearby. Rolls' are expensive as hell for a reason. But anyway, someone made the mistake of having a dealership right here in my fair city, right next to our Sector 5. A man (Think Thug-nificent from The Boondocks) walks in, finds what he guesses to be the youngest, least experienced, possibly retarded employee he can, and asks for a test drive. I don't know what the steps are in getting hired to sell cars for RR, but they can't be very stringent. Men who are utterly unable to dress themselves are probably not going to buy a Rolls, but whatever. The employee grabs a key, gets in the Rolls and off they go. After a couple blocks, our enterprising criminal decides that he likes the car, produces his "get out of my car" stick (a 9 mm) and motions the employee out of the car.
Now, it's really not that hard to find a Rolls near Section 8 housing. I think it took us 8 minutes from when the call was placed. So we found the car, and followed it. We have a pretty strict rule about chasing, but he was doing 35 mph or so, so nobody called it a chase. Just a "cold trail" (try that with your AWC). Apparently Mr. Thug also knew that he probably wasn't going to get away with this, so instead of running, he just drove past his friends' places and honked and waved, and showed off for about 45 minutes, each time getting back on the freeway to head to his starting point and do it again. The last time though, he'd just gotten onto a surface road when we spot an old, beat up, clearly-a-hook-car, Ford Crown Vic crest the off ramp, aim his wheels at the Rolls, and come tearing down the hill to T bone that thing.
For those who don't know, a Rolls runs somewhere around 100 grand. Initially we thought it was some rival dealer, or gang member, or maybe just a pissed off ex. Negative. Both vehicles came to a stop, and Pookie surrendered, and we see this cartoon parody of a southern cop (he was a security guard) step out of his POS. Big gut, big hat, southern drawl, Wilford Brimley mustache.
"I heard y'all can't chase, so I stopped 'im for ya."
The only thing he didn't do was spit out a wad of chewing tobacco right then.
Now, it's really not that hard to find a Rolls near Section 8 housing. I think it took us 8 minutes from when the call was placed. So we found the car, and followed it. We have a pretty strict rule about chasing, but he was doing 35 mph or so, so nobody called it a chase. Just a "cold trail" (try that with your AWC). Apparently Mr. Thug also knew that he probably wasn't going to get away with this, so instead of running, he just drove past his friends' places and honked and waved, and showed off for about 45 minutes, each time getting back on the freeway to head to his starting point and do it again. The last time though, he'd just gotten onto a surface road when we spot an old, beat up, clearly-a-hook-car, Ford Crown Vic crest the off ramp, aim his wheels at the Rolls, and come tearing down the hill to T bone that thing.
For those who don't know, a Rolls runs somewhere around 100 grand. Initially we thought it was some rival dealer, or gang member, or maybe just a pissed off ex. Negative. Both vehicles came to a stop, and Pookie surrendered, and we see this cartoon parody of a southern cop (he was a security guard) step out of his POS. Big gut, big hat, southern drawl, Wilford Brimley mustache.
"I heard y'all can't chase, so I stopped 'im for ya."
The only thing he didn't do was spit out a wad of chewing tobacco right then.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Happy Father's Day!!
This Father's Day, do something special for dad. But since I don't work for Hallmark, I won't suggest what that may be. What I can do, is tell you what not to do in the form of this cautionary tale:
Once upon a time, in a land that's far too close for comfort, there were eleven people living in a one bedroom apartment. The family decided to get a giant van/truck monstrosity on wheels and take grandpa and all the family out for father's day. Shortly thereafter, everybody who wasn't a child was completely hammered, the mark of a good father's day dinner. Well, they drive home, and can't find a parking spot in their apartment. So they find the one sign in the whole apartment that basically says: "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Park Here, For Thine Shit is Mine".
Well, it was just for a minute. Just a minute while the half dozen kids used the bathroom (1 bedroom apartment = 1 bathroom) and while the wife was looking for her purse, and while mom (who can't walk) was helped somewhere. Yeah, one minute. The tow truck was just hiding behind the sign and busted out as soon as they hit P on the gear shift. Anyway, during this one minute interlude, the family notices the car being jacked up and a security officer (actually a police officer working off duty) nearby. One of the drunk women (it's always a woman) rushes over there and physically pushes the tow truck driver down and tries to take his truck. Security ( a tiny old man born in the late 40s) restrains here. Then the rest of the family tries to step in, so the old timer does what he thinks will disperse the crowd. Maces everyone. Straight up everybody. He even maced me after the fact, because OC spray is like that curious strain of syphilis that just "mysteriously" gets around. Also, it's a total bitch. Well, one of the women doesn't take kindly to that, so she jumps on his back trying to take him to the ground and fight him for the spray. Old timer's partner, a gigantic 6' 5" wall of dude finally shows up and picks up the fighting drunk chick off his partner's back. The drunk chick's sister (hereafter DB, you can guess why) gets it in her alcohol addled mind to sneak up and knock out the great wall of dude. She punches him in the back of the head. He turned around, assessed the situation and knocked her flat out with a punch to the face. Then the fire dept showed up, bemoaned the long term effects of pepper spray, looked at DB's newly reshaped nose, and left. We took everyone who wasn't crippled or a small child to jail that night. Best Part: Grandpa's so drunk, he still can't remember why he was arrested. Have fun at your bail hearing. And happy Father's Day!
Once upon a time, in a land that's far too close for comfort, there were eleven people living in a one bedroom apartment. The family decided to get a giant van/truck monstrosity on wheels and take grandpa and all the family out for father's day. Shortly thereafter, everybody who wasn't a child was completely hammered, the mark of a good father's day dinner. Well, they drive home, and can't find a parking spot in their apartment. So they find the one sign in the whole apartment that basically says: "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Park Here, For Thine Shit is Mine".
Well, it was just for a minute. Just a minute while the half dozen kids used the bathroom (1 bedroom apartment = 1 bathroom) and while the wife was looking for her purse, and while mom (who can't walk) was helped somewhere. Yeah, one minute. The tow truck was just hiding behind the sign and busted out as soon as they hit P on the gear shift. Anyway, during this one minute interlude, the family notices the car being jacked up and a security officer (actually a police officer working off duty) nearby. One of the drunk women (it's always a woman) rushes over there and physically pushes the tow truck driver down and tries to take his truck. Security ( a tiny old man born in the late 40s) restrains here. Then the rest of the family tries to step in, so the old timer does what he thinks will disperse the crowd. Maces everyone. Straight up everybody. He even maced me after the fact, because OC spray is like that curious strain of syphilis that just "mysteriously" gets around. Also, it's a total bitch. Well, one of the women doesn't take kindly to that, so she jumps on his back trying to take him to the ground and fight him for the spray. Old timer's partner, a gigantic 6' 5" wall of dude finally shows up and picks up the fighting drunk chick off his partner's back. The drunk chick's sister (hereafter DB, you can guess why) gets it in her alcohol addled mind to sneak up and knock out the great wall of dude. She punches him in the back of the head. He turned around, assessed the situation and knocked her flat out with a punch to the face. Then the fire dept showed up, bemoaned the long term effects of pepper spray, looked at DB's newly reshaped nose, and left. We took everyone who wasn't crippled or a small child to jail that night. Best Part: Grandpa's so drunk, he still can't remember why he was arrested. Have fun at your bail hearing. And happy Father's Day!
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Things not to tell your arresting officer
I ain't talking to you, stupid.
Chris Rock put out a video detailing how not to get your ass beat by the police. One of the key points was "Shut the Fuck Up". If you're not asking your arresting officer a pertinent question, or engaging in conversation regarding a point of clarification, or something else useful (try a funny joke, because hauling people to jail all day gets dreary) then you need to shut it. And if you're talking, but not to the officer, then you really need to understand that you're in jail, you're under arrest, and STFU.
I'm getting up out of here.
If you're under arrest your freedom of movement has been curtailed. This is why an officer can legally remove you from where you are to jail or interrogation or detox once you've been arrested. Your notion of "getting up out of here" can end up with you getting tackled, injured, and charged with felony escape of detention. If you mean that you're getting out of jail soon (and I hope you clarified in some way, to prevent that tackling) yes, we know. A sad fact is that generally speaking that an officer, over a 30 year career, will log more hours in jail than most of the people he arrests.
I pay your salary.
Strictly speaking this is rarely true. I have yet to arrest anyone out of the Comptroller's Office. Indeed, given where I work, it's rare that I arrest anyone paying taxes in my city. Furthermore, even if you are a taxpayer, the police don't work for you. Hell, they don't even work for the Comptroller, and that's the office actually paying the police. Police is derived from the Greek word polis meaning "city-state". The city is defined as X number of people living in a certain proximity. As the number and the people are generally in a state of flux, it's more accurate to say that the police (whose individuals are also usually in a state of flux) work for the intangible notion of a city, namely the idea that within this place and with these people, all men may live together free from the initiation of force upon them.
You're only here making XX amount
Officers generally know their own wage. A man incapable of figuring that out probably doesn't need to be police in the first place. Furthermore, they knew their wage before they arrested you, and indeed made the decision that the time used putting you in jail for whatever stupidity you inflicted upon your fellow man is worth the wage offered.
I know XXXX and I'll have your badge
I have yet to meet the officer who gives a flying fuck about who you know. There are trophy rooms filled with the empty shelves that contain all the fucks never given. People have told me that they know:
The Mayor
The City Manager
City Council Member XYZ
The President of the United States
The Attorney General (State or Federal was never specified)
The Chief of Police
The Sheriff
and my personal favorite: Warren Buffett.
I've never met Officer Buffett, or Chief Buffett, but apparently he'll have my badge. It's been a few years now.
Chris Rock put out a video detailing how not to get your ass beat by the police. One of the key points was "Shut the Fuck Up". If you're not asking your arresting officer a pertinent question, or engaging in conversation regarding a point of clarification, or something else useful (try a funny joke, because hauling people to jail all day gets dreary) then you need to shut it. And if you're talking, but not to the officer, then you really need to understand that you're in jail, you're under arrest, and STFU.
I'm getting up out of here.
If you're under arrest your freedom of movement has been curtailed. This is why an officer can legally remove you from where you are to jail or interrogation or detox once you've been arrested. Your notion of "getting up out of here" can end up with you getting tackled, injured, and charged with felony escape of detention. If you mean that you're getting out of jail soon (and I hope you clarified in some way, to prevent that tackling) yes, we know. A sad fact is that generally speaking that an officer, over a 30 year career, will log more hours in jail than most of the people he arrests.
I pay your salary.
Strictly speaking this is rarely true. I have yet to arrest anyone out of the Comptroller's Office. Indeed, given where I work, it's rare that I arrest anyone paying taxes in my city. Furthermore, even if you are a taxpayer, the police don't work for you. Hell, they don't even work for the Comptroller, and that's the office actually paying the police. Police is derived from the Greek word polis meaning "city-state". The city is defined as X number of people living in a certain proximity. As the number and the people are generally in a state of flux, it's more accurate to say that the police (whose individuals are also usually in a state of flux) work for the intangible notion of a city, namely the idea that within this place and with these people, all men may live together free from the initiation of force upon them.
You're only here making XX amount
Officers generally know their own wage. A man incapable of figuring that out probably doesn't need to be police in the first place. Furthermore, they knew their wage before they arrested you, and indeed made the decision that the time used putting you in jail for whatever stupidity you inflicted upon your fellow man is worth the wage offered.
I know XXXX and I'll have your badge
I have yet to meet the officer who gives a flying fuck about who you know. There are trophy rooms filled with the empty shelves that contain all the fucks never given. People have told me that they know:
The Mayor
The City Manager
City Council Member XYZ
The President of the United States
The Attorney General (State or Federal was never specified)
The Chief of Police
The Sheriff
and my personal favorite: Warren Buffett.
I've never met Officer Buffett, or Chief Buffett, but apparently he'll have my badge. It's been a few years now.
Special Hell
In Hell, there are all the sinners basting in a lake of fire or some such thing.
Basically that ^
It's a freaky place. Murderers and Suicides get to hang out together. Adulterers, cheaters, swindlers, liars, and traitors all hang out in the respective places and generally things suck for everyone. For an example of this suckitude, please refer to the above painting by Heironymus Bosch.
However, even within Hell there is (or ought to be) a special place for people who suck especially hard. For people who do things like try to steal from Wal-Mart, but are too chickenshit to do it themselves, so they instead coerce their 8 year old son and 14 year old daughter to do it instead. Because, holy shit, you're shooting for the Mother of the Year trophy this time.
It's a freaky place. Murderers and Suicides get to hang out together. Adulterers, cheaters, swindlers, liars, and traitors all hang out in the respective places and generally things suck for everyone. For an example of this suckitude, please refer to the above painting by Heironymus Bosch.
However, even within Hell there is (or ought to be) a special place for people who suck especially hard. For people who do things like try to steal from Wal-Mart, but are too chickenshit to do it themselves, so they instead coerce their 8 year old son and 14 year old daughter to do it instead. Because, holy shit, you're shooting for the Mother of the Year trophy this time.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Supernatural Occurrences
I'm not a believer in ghosts, the boogie man, or psychics. Really, anything supernatural. That being said, I have encountered two "psychic" episodes while out on the street.
In the first, a man calls 911 and begs for officers to come to his apartment, that he's being robbed at home and they're kicking in the door. We run out, lights and sirens, and find his door intact, no robbers anywhere, and no crime having been committed. We talk to the caller, who says that men are coming to rob him, but that he's hid his property inside his shoe and that nobody will ever find it. About an hour later we get another call, same thing, so we run back out and lo and behold, someone's kicked in the door, and stolen this man's shoe. Of course, he denies having told anyone about it, so the only other explanation as to why gunmen would only take his shoe is that he's part of a secret psychic cabal and owes them money or something.
In the second, we get a call about people fighting out in the parking lot of a gas station. So we roll out and find our people. In true moron fashion, everyone agrees "ain't nothin happen" and that they were merely having a spirited discussion. No doubt about foreign policy and domestic economic theory. We find out where these people live (of course, nobody says they live in that area) and tell them to go home, it's a bad part of town. Every single time an officer utters those words, at least one suspect (who has to absolutely have the last word) will say "Oh, I'm from (Louisiana, Mississippi, California, Arizona, etc etc), so I didn't know."
I'm going to segue for a moment. It's actually quite easy to discern if you're in a good or bad neighborhood if you apply this secret Tibetan monk technique of "looking around". Look around, if you see more than one grown adult male walking around with no shirt and no pool in sight, it's probably a bad neighborhood. If people just hang out in front of the gas station looking back and forth at 3 AM, it's a bad neighborhood. If the gas station has bulletproof partitions, it's a bad neighborhood. If you see lots of police seemingly driving in circles in the area, it's a bad neighborhood. Basically, if you encounter behavior that tells you that most of these people don't have to worry about being up in the morning to go to work, it's probably a bad neighborhood.
Back to the original topic. So this guy feeds us the lie that he's from out of town and didn't know better. Another officer tells him that if he's gonna keep acting up like this he's gonna get shot in this part of town, and he should go home, or even better, go back to (insert fake home state here). 24 hours later (not even joking) we find the dude stabbed 17 times and shot once, hiding under a car in that same intersection we found him.
So the moral of this story, just ask people for winning lotto numbers. You never know who might accidentally predict the future.
In the first, a man calls 911 and begs for officers to come to his apartment, that he's being robbed at home and they're kicking in the door. We run out, lights and sirens, and find his door intact, no robbers anywhere, and no crime having been committed. We talk to the caller, who says that men are coming to rob him, but that he's hid his property inside his shoe and that nobody will ever find it. About an hour later we get another call, same thing, so we run back out and lo and behold, someone's kicked in the door, and stolen this man's shoe. Of course, he denies having told anyone about it, so the only other explanation as to why gunmen would only take his shoe is that he's part of a secret psychic cabal and owes them money or something.
In the second, we get a call about people fighting out in the parking lot of a gas station. So we roll out and find our people. In true moron fashion, everyone agrees "ain't nothin happen" and that they were merely having a spirited discussion. No doubt about foreign policy and domestic economic theory. We find out where these people live (of course, nobody says they live in that area) and tell them to go home, it's a bad part of town. Every single time an officer utters those words, at least one suspect (who has to absolutely have the last word) will say "Oh, I'm from (Louisiana, Mississippi, California, Arizona, etc etc), so I didn't know."
I'm going to segue for a moment. It's actually quite easy to discern if you're in a good or bad neighborhood if you apply this secret Tibetan monk technique of "looking around". Look around, if you see more than one grown adult male walking around with no shirt and no pool in sight, it's probably a bad neighborhood. If people just hang out in front of the gas station looking back and forth at 3 AM, it's a bad neighborhood. If the gas station has bulletproof partitions, it's a bad neighborhood. If you see lots of police seemingly driving in circles in the area, it's a bad neighborhood. Basically, if you encounter behavior that tells you that most of these people don't have to worry about being up in the morning to go to work, it's probably a bad neighborhood.
Back to the original topic. So this guy feeds us the lie that he's from out of town and didn't know better. Another officer tells him that if he's gonna keep acting up like this he's gonna get shot in this part of town, and he should go home, or even better, go back to (insert fake home state here). 24 hours later (not even joking) we find the dude stabbed 17 times and shot once, hiding under a car in that same intersection we found him.
So the moral of this story, just ask people for winning lotto numbers. You never know who might accidentally predict the future.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Self Defense Made Easy
So, my friend is asking about self defense and about Krav Maga and Muay Thai. I explained my own perspective on violence (which is what self defense is really about) and made this handy flowchart.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Guest Infographic
So, a "guest" infographic. More below the graphic.
I didn't anticipate going into anything political on this blog, so I'm not going to approach the 2nd Amendment argument from a rights standpoint (though, as a political science graduate I think I could). However, I will point out that there is an odd disconnect between administrative level and street level police with regard to civilian ownership of guns. For the most part, administrators will tout the need for fewer guns on the street. As I'm not an administrator I can only guess as to their intents or reasons for this. Perhaps they need to, as any rank above LT (or Captain for those of you who still have that rank) are basically political appointees, ingratiate themselves with the Mayor's office, City Council and/or City Manager's office. Maybe they see it as a liability risk. Maybe they just like power and prefer to have private citizens helpless and awaiting police intervention (an attitude that will likely get you killed btw). At the street level, though, we recognize that there aren't nearly enough police on shift on any given night to intervene in time to actually resolve a deadly situation before it's over. We've been relegated, through cuts in personnel and through policy/procedure changes, to report takers. Thus, in a deadly confrontation, the first responder is the citizen and his life is in his own hands. While some citizens may have a physical advantage over an assailant, or maybe the assailant is a complete coward who flees at the first sign of resistance, this may not always hold true. For a smaller person, a female, or elderly, or otherwise disabled citizen, a firearm is the most effective means of protection available provided they train themselves and practice accordingly. And besides, since patrol officers are relegated to report taking anyway, it's better we take a report on the dead rapist hanging out of your window rather than trying to piece together who raped you after they got away.
I didn't anticipate going into anything political on this blog, so I'm not going to approach the 2nd Amendment argument from a rights standpoint (though, as a political science graduate I think I could). However, I will point out that there is an odd disconnect between administrative level and street level police with regard to civilian ownership of guns. For the most part, administrators will tout the need for fewer guns on the street. As I'm not an administrator I can only guess as to their intents or reasons for this. Perhaps they need to, as any rank above LT (or Captain for those of you who still have that rank) are basically political appointees, ingratiate themselves with the Mayor's office, City Council and/or City Manager's office. Maybe they see it as a liability risk. Maybe they just like power and prefer to have private citizens helpless and awaiting police intervention (an attitude that will likely get you killed btw). At the street level, though, we recognize that there aren't nearly enough police on shift on any given night to intervene in time to actually resolve a deadly situation before it's over. We've been relegated, through cuts in personnel and through policy/procedure changes, to report takers. Thus, in a deadly confrontation, the first responder is the citizen and his life is in his own hands. While some citizens may have a physical advantage over an assailant, or maybe the assailant is a complete coward who flees at the first sign of resistance, this may not always hold true. For a smaller person, a female, or elderly, or otherwise disabled citizen, a firearm is the most effective means of protection available provided they train themselves and practice accordingly. And besides, since patrol officers are relegated to report taking anyway, it's better we take a report on the dead rapist hanging out of your window rather than trying to piece together who raped you after they got away.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Community Empowerment
So, in theory anyway, police are supposed to work with their communities in reducing crime. The official name for this is something silly like Operation Triangle, or 10-70-20, or some other useless moniker because when all is said and done no police officer will state, on record, that a citizen can intervene in a crime with force, if only because that officer will be shitcanned faster than Taco Bell in the digestive tract for the sake of our favorite pagan god: Liability.
If you think Liability (yes, you always capitalize) is not a pagan god, what else do we collectively sacrifice so much blood, time, and money for if not a god?
So while police are supposed to reach out to these communities we're supposed to refrain from pointing out that it's generally legal to blow away some asshole who you observe breaking into your car at night, or from organizing your neighborhood watch into an armed pseudo-militia to run out the drug peddlers, since even the most cracked out pusher will head inside when the cops come calling. Or maybe pointing out that it's legal to keep a live alligator in your backyard as a protective measure.
However, every now and again there's a community that's either too heavily invested in illegal activity to cooperate, or even speak to police about these ventures, or maybe they're just comprised too heavily of a "target" population like illegal immigrants afraid that going to the police will result in deportation. For these illegal immigrant populations I've found that allowing them to reduce their own crime figures works pretty well, at least until other police come by and ruin the "illusion" for them. Which is kind of a dick thing to do, since it's not only legal, but expected under the Peelian structure of policing (the one that all modern police agencies are based on, supposedly ).
For the other, the apartment complex where drug peddling is the source of income for 75% of the residents, you can't expect much cooperation, unless the crime is something that suits their interest. For instance, there is a dumbass punk having sex with some dude 26 years her senior. So, legally, he's a rapist as statutory rape is a thing. We can go asking around about him, but everyone says the same thing "I dunno nothin". So, you look for that one door, or one guy that nobody bumps into, even when the hallways are jam packed with people trying to cool breeze away from the cops and you knock on that door. It's a dangerous game, but when the tatted up head asshole opens up you ask if he knows the dude in the photo. He's gonna say no. If he's feeling generous, or like acting a bit for you, he might even look at the photo. Then you ask him:
"Hey man, you got kids?"
"Yeah, a 7 year old girl"
"Well, lemme tell you, this cat's out here raping little girls man. Just did a 12 year old over there, so we're lookin for him."
Let that sink in for a minute.
"Lemme see that picture again."
"You recognize him?"
"Naw man, I just wanna memorize his photo..."
That's community policing.
If you think Liability (yes, you always capitalize) is not a pagan god, what else do we collectively sacrifice so much blood, time, and money for if not a god?
So while police are supposed to reach out to these communities we're supposed to refrain from pointing out that it's generally legal to blow away some asshole who you observe breaking into your car at night, or from organizing your neighborhood watch into an armed pseudo-militia to run out the drug peddlers, since even the most cracked out pusher will head inside when the cops come calling. Or maybe pointing out that it's legal to keep a live alligator in your backyard as a protective measure.
However, every now and again there's a community that's either too heavily invested in illegal activity to cooperate, or even speak to police about these ventures, or maybe they're just comprised too heavily of a "target" population like illegal immigrants afraid that going to the police will result in deportation. For these illegal immigrant populations I've found that allowing them to reduce their own crime figures works pretty well, at least until other police come by and ruin the "illusion" for them. Which is kind of a dick thing to do, since it's not only legal, but expected under the Peelian structure of policing (the one that all modern police agencies are based on, supposedly ).
For the other, the apartment complex where drug peddling is the source of income for 75% of the residents, you can't expect much cooperation, unless the crime is something that suits their interest. For instance, there is a dumbass punk having sex with some dude 26 years her senior. So, legally, he's a rapist as statutory rape is a thing. We can go asking around about him, but everyone says the same thing "I dunno nothin". So, you look for that one door, or one guy that nobody bumps into, even when the hallways are jam packed with people trying to cool breeze away from the cops and you knock on that door. It's a dangerous game, but when the tatted up head asshole opens up you ask if he knows the dude in the photo. He's gonna say no. If he's feeling generous, or like acting a bit for you, he might even look at the photo. Then you ask him:
"Hey man, you got kids?"
"Yeah, a 7 year old girl"
"Well, lemme tell you, this cat's out here raping little girls man. Just did a 12 year old over there, so we're lookin for him."
Let that sink in for a minute.
"Lemme see that picture again."
"You recognize him?"
"Naw man, I just wanna memorize his photo..."
That's community policing.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Conspicuous vs. Inconspicuous
Sometimes a man, or woman, just has to turn to criminal activity to makes ends meet, or because they have absolutely no skills, or because they're plain crazy. It's not for me to judge. And some of these activities require a certain amount of guile, or stealth, or just being unnoticed, while others may require a certain amount of.... advertising if you will, while still not eliciting police attention.
While I understand that, like the majestic peacock, you need a certain eye catching draw as a prostitute, you should not go full crazy housewife wearing a purple showercap and a highlighter pink jacket and then claim that you were mistaken for someone else. Nobody wears that crap.
So, to summarize:
Inconspicuous:
Bland T Shirt.
So, to summarize:
Inconspicuous:
Bland T Shirt.
Anything eliciting the descriptor "nondescript"
Jeans.
A jacket in basic shades or colors.
Even camo attire is becoming more and more common these days.
Conspicuous:
Colors that warn bears of venom
Colors that warn bears of venom
Colors that tend not to appear in Nature
Clothes that are worn inside behind drawn shades.
A lack of shoes.
Shirts with "loud" things emblazoned upon them (ie COPS CAN SUCK DICKS)
Facial Tribal Tattoos
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
There's a car on my tree
Is it too much to ask that maybe, just maybe, people don't crash their cars into your tree? There aren't many good excuses for placing your car against my tree.
Good excuse:
Your tree fell on my car.
Your tree fell into the roadway.
In a miracle of botany and state crash records you planted this tree in the roadway and it survived until it was big enough to stop my truck.
That's pretty much it.
Bad excuse:
I'm really drunk and I forgot where the road was.
I thought that stop sign marked the right lane.
I can't remember how my truck got here.
I parked my truck at the bottom of that hill and must have left it in neutral (implying that it rolled uphill, over a stop sign, and into the tree)
I suffer from every mental illness at the same time, though I don't know what any of them are.
The voices told me to put it there.
On an unrelated note: It's funny as hell to try and discuss game theory with prisoners who have been separated for interrogation. Specifically, the "prisoner's dilemma". I could barely contain myself when one of them offered to get me a prostitute. I have no idea what he thought I was saying to get that reaction.
Good excuse:
Your tree fell on my car.
Your tree fell into the roadway.
In a miracle of botany and state crash records you planted this tree in the roadway and it survived until it was big enough to stop my truck.
That's pretty much it.
Bad excuse:
I'm really drunk and I forgot where the road was.
I thought that stop sign marked the right lane.
I can't remember how my truck got here.
I parked my truck at the bottom of that hill and must have left it in neutral (implying that it rolled uphill, over a stop sign, and into the tree)
I suffer from every mental illness at the same time, though I don't know what any of them are.
The voices told me to put it there.
On an unrelated note: It's funny as hell to try and discuss game theory with prisoners who have been separated for interrogation. Specifically, the "prisoner's dilemma". I could barely contain myself when one of them offered to get me a prostitute. I have no idea what he thought I was saying to get that reaction.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
When to go after your stuff
Let me tell you a story: Once upon a time there were two stoner kids. They lived in what could be the safest city in the United States. But they decide that their stoner lifestyle is better than physical safety and decide to come down to my area, a hovel reviled by the people who live there as a den of drug dealers, pimps, and the immigrants and refugees who were somehow duped into living there. If it were possible to charge the US Government with a hate crime, forcing those people to live there would qualify. They came with the belief that securing their drug of choice (marijuana) would be easier, cheaper and more plentiful in their new surroundings. They met up with a dealer and tried to buy some weed.
Now audience, I want you to tell me when they take a turn from stupid to outrageously fucktarded.
The dealer tells our young stoners that alas, he has been beset upon by thieves and cannot sell the stoners any weed as it has all been taken. The stoners' little hearts no doubt fell, so overcome with empathy and compassion for their dealer friend. But, continued the dealer, I know who took it, and you should help me and my two friends here get it back. Then I'll hook you up. No inspirational speech given by warrior-king nor general nor Mel Gibson himself rallied such men so quickly. Of course the stoners would help their dealer friend. Jump in our car guys and we'll go find your thieves. The dealer guided our young stoners to an area bereft of light and, more importantly, witnesses. The dealer produced a handgun and told our young stoners to hand over everything. One stoner was, ironically, too stoned to comply and only lost his cell phone. The other lost his keys, his phone and his wallet with all his cash. The dealer and his two friends leave on foot. Then something amazing happened! The after effects of that rousing battle cry finally reached the permanently delayed portions of our stoners' brains and they leapt forth from their car to pursue and do battle with their dealer turned robber and his robber friends. This lasted exactly as long as it took the dealer to pull out his pistol again and fire a single shot at our stoners, ending their pursuit.
Now, as you may understand, these kids are suicidally stupid. I am actually convinced that their stupidity will kill them. I can understand and appreciate that marijuana is a black market product and that there are inherent risks in obtaining it. However, when a strange man you only know via pseudonym tells you that he doesn't have the product you want, the business transaction is over. If I go looking for a 12 pack of ginger ale at the grocery store, and they tell me they're out (even if the reason is theft) I don't go out looking for the ginger ale thieves or the last buyers. I just go to the next store. It is not my job to provide loss prevention services to my ginger ale dealer. It is not healthy for two stupid kids to provide those same services in an area that will literally eat them and spit out the bones. Further, it's probably time to get skeptical when your dealer, or my ginger ale dealer, asks to get into my car to go get their product back. Lastly, if a man puts a gun to your face, it is not in anyone's best interest to start trying to chase them on foot. If a raccoon takes your pizza slice, you can chase it to get your stuff back. If a seagull steals your shoe at the beach, it's okay to chase it. If a small child grabs your watch and toddles off, you may go get that back. If a grown man puts a loaded gun to your face, you probably don't want to run after them unless you're Iron Man.
Now audience, I want you to tell me when they take a turn from stupid to outrageously fucktarded.
The dealer tells our young stoners that alas, he has been beset upon by thieves and cannot sell the stoners any weed as it has all been taken. The stoners' little hearts no doubt fell, so overcome with empathy and compassion for their dealer friend. But, continued the dealer, I know who took it, and you should help me and my two friends here get it back. Then I'll hook you up. No inspirational speech given by warrior-king nor general nor Mel Gibson himself rallied such men so quickly. Of course the stoners would help their dealer friend. Jump in our car guys and we'll go find your thieves. The dealer guided our young stoners to an area bereft of light and, more importantly, witnesses. The dealer produced a handgun and told our young stoners to hand over everything. One stoner was, ironically, too stoned to comply and only lost his cell phone. The other lost his keys, his phone and his wallet with all his cash. The dealer and his two friends leave on foot. Then something amazing happened! The after effects of that rousing battle cry finally reached the permanently delayed portions of our stoners' brains and they leapt forth from their car to pursue and do battle with their dealer turned robber and his robber friends. This lasted exactly as long as it took the dealer to pull out his pistol again and fire a single shot at our stoners, ending their pursuit.
Now, as you may understand, these kids are suicidally stupid. I am actually convinced that their stupidity will kill them. I can understand and appreciate that marijuana is a black market product and that there are inherent risks in obtaining it. However, when a strange man you only know via pseudonym tells you that he doesn't have the product you want, the business transaction is over. If I go looking for a 12 pack of ginger ale at the grocery store, and they tell me they're out (even if the reason is theft) I don't go out looking for the ginger ale thieves or the last buyers. I just go to the next store. It is not my job to provide loss prevention services to my ginger ale dealer. It is not healthy for two stupid kids to provide those same services in an area that will literally eat them and spit out the bones. Further, it's probably time to get skeptical when your dealer, or my ginger ale dealer, asks to get into my car to go get their product back. Lastly, if a man puts a gun to your face, it is not in anyone's best interest to start trying to chase them on foot. If a raccoon takes your pizza slice, you can chase it to get your stuff back. If a seagull steals your shoe at the beach, it's okay to chase it. If a small child grabs your watch and toddles off, you may go get that back. If a grown man puts a loaded gun to your face, you probably don't want to run after them unless you're Iron Man.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
How to get away with Rape
To begin: Rape is a horrific crime to commit upon a fellow human being. Some would say that it is no laughing matter, and that there is no way to derive humor from such subject matter. Any source you go to, except for rapist forums or certain fraternities, will tell you that rape is a crime that is notoriously under-reported, under-pursued, and under-penalized, with often greater penalties for the victim than for the perpetrator. Just look to the Steubenville Rape controversy going on right now, and you'll see a girl who was drugged and raped repeatedly and then watching as the families of her attackers swept her case under the rug until their own stupidity caught up to them in form of cell phone videos.
With that being said, here's how to commit a rape and get away with it:
1.) You must commit a rape. Generally speaking, the overwhelming majority of rapes are committed by someone the victim knows. While this should mean that catching and convicting a rapist is incredibly easy as it's someone who the victim knows and is easily able to identify, the majority of victims will "stick up" for their attacker and not report the crime, or not help the prosecution after the initial outcry, or (worst of all) be told that "well, it's his word vs. yours" and that court won't help. That is not part of the joke, it's just depressing. So, having picked out someone you know go do the deed.
2.) Keeping in mind that misplaced goodwill on the part of the victim in sticking up for her attacker, during the rape of this person you know, it's best to try and kill them through some incredibly inefficient means, like smothering them with a pillow while simultaneously trying to take off your pants (hey, I didn't say you were any good at being a rapist). This will likely remove any desire on the part of the victim to remember you as a friend, and just remember you as the jackwagon who tried to kill them.
3.) Get bored with trying to kill/rape and leave, but not before telling the victim where you will be staying and that you'll be back to kill them. That last part is crucial as it gives the victim that extra incentive to call the police.
4.) When choosing a getaway vehicle you want to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Thus, selecting a Chevy 2500 in old school Fire Engine Red is your best possible option. Make sure you're wearing a cowboy hat as you leave, in order to blend in as much as possible.
5.) I'm assuming you were already drunk when you decided to become a budding rapist, but just in case you better knock back six or seven more beers in the next five minutes or so. Just in case company comes by and tries to drink a few of your beers. You paid good money for them after all, and it'd be a waste not to drink them yourself.
6.) At this point that loud banging you're hearing isn't the hangover that's coming for you. That's tomorrow. Right now that's the police banging on the door telling you you're under arrest for being a colossal cockbite. Remembering that the majority of rapes go unreported and unresolved, and that it's "your word against his" you should get ready to tell the police your version of the events in order to cast a plausible doubt upon the victim's story.
7.) Naturally, the best way to get the police to listen to you is to make a good first impression. So get naked. If you have some really creepily tight tighty whities you should put them on, and nothing else. Now that you're drunk, and dressed for the part too, it's time to open the door.
8.) Immediately start gesticulating wildly and flailing your arms in a threatening manner to gain the attention of the officers at your door, as police have notoriously short attention spans and need moving objects to focus on. Don't be alarmed if a couple officers latch on to your arms, it's a subconscious reflex on their part. Just jerk and twist away as best you can to keep their attention. This may cause your head to hit various walls and fixtures a few times, but it pays off.
9.) If the officers offer you pants you should refuse. Just because it's cold outside doesn't mean you should change the impression you made on them. Pants are a sign of weakness.
10.) Alternate between not knowing what's going on and swearing vengeance upon the victim for calling the police. Make sure the officers get all this on their in-car microphones for use in court later. Bonus points if you tell the microphone that you plan on committing perjury later on today in order to have the victim arrested for a false crime.
11.) Spend the entire drive to jail cursing the officer driving you there. This will no doubt endear you to them, and they will reflect such in their arrest report.
12.) Once you get to jail, and the intake personnel (who haven't had to deal with you yet) are kind enough to let you get dressed, repay their kindness through attitude and trying to punch Grandpa*.
13.) As you recover from your concussion the magistrate at the jail will examine the 12 steps you took to getting here and determine that you are literally too stupid to know what your genitals are for, let alone how they are used.
Congratulations! You got away with rape. However, you have been charged with Felony Assault and will be staying in jail learning empirically why rape is a bad thing.
*Grandpa is the intake officer who, although resembling a good natured Polish chef, is the guy who all the other intake officers (and prisoners) edge away from quietly when a new prisoner is acting a fool. I have personally observed him lift a 6'7" drunk 350 lb man and smash his head on the floor. Messing with Grandpa is considered a roundabout form of suicide in 35 states, and a form of tax evasion in the other 15.
With that being said, here's how to commit a rape and get away with it:
1.) You must commit a rape. Generally speaking, the overwhelming majority of rapes are committed by someone the victim knows. While this should mean that catching and convicting a rapist is incredibly easy as it's someone who the victim knows and is easily able to identify, the majority of victims will "stick up" for their attacker and not report the crime, or not help the prosecution after the initial outcry, or (worst of all) be told that "well, it's his word vs. yours" and that court won't help. That is not part of the joke, it's just depressing. So, having picked out someone you know go do the deed.
2.) Keeping in mind that misplaced goodwill on the part of the victim in sticking up for her attacker, during the rape of this person you know, it's best to try and kill them through some incredibly inefficient means, like smothering them with a pillow while simultaneously trying to take off your pants (hey, I didn't say you were any good at being a rapist). This will likely remove any desire on the part of the victim to remember you as a friend, and just remember you as the jackwagon who tried to kill them.
3.) Get bored with trying to kill/rape and leave, but not before telling the victim where you will be staying and that you'll be back to kill them. That last part is crucial as it gives the victim that extra incentive to call the police.
4.) When choosing a getaway vehicle you want to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Thus, selecting a Chevy 2500 in old school Fire Engine Red is your best possible option. Make sure you're wearing a cowboy hat as you leave, in order to blend in as much as possible.
5.) I'm assuming you were already drunk when you decided to become a budding rapist, but just in case you better knock back six or seven more beers in the next five minutes or so. Just in case company comes by and tries to drink a few of your beers. You paid good money for them after all, and it'd be a waste not to drink them yourself.
6.) At this point that loud banging you're hearing isn't the hangover that's coming for you. That's tomorrow. Right now that's the police banging on the door telling you you're under arrest for being a colossal cockbite. Remembering that the majority of rapes go unreported and unresolved, and that it's "your word against his" you should get ready to tell the police your version of the events in order to cast a plausible doubt upon the victim's story.
7.) Naturally, the best way to get the police to listen to you is to make a good first impression. So get naked. If you have some really creepily tight tighty whities you should put them on, and nothing else. Now that you're drunk, and dressed for the part too, it's time to open the door.
8.) Immediately start gesticulating wildly and flailing your arms in a threatening manner to gain the attention of the officers at your door, as police have notoriously short attention spans and need moving objects to focus on. Don't be alarmed if a couple officers latch on to your arms, it's a subconscious reflex on their part. Just jerk and twist away as best you can to keep their attention. This may cause your head to hit various walls and fixtures a few times, but it pays off.
9.) If the officers offer you pants you should refuse. Just because it's cold outside doesn't mean you should change the impression you made on them. Pants are a sign of weakness.
10.) Alternate between not knowing what's going on and swearing vengeance upon the victim for calling the police. Make sure the officers get all this on their in-car microphones for use in court later. Bonus points if you tell the microphone that you plan on committing perjury later on today in order to have the victim arrested for a false crime.
11.) Spend the entire drive to jail cursing the officer driving you there. This will no doubt endear you to them, and they will reflect such in their arrest report.
12.) Once you get to jail, and the intake personnel (who haven't had to deal with you yet) are kind enough to let you get dressed, repay their kindness through attitude and trying to punch Grandpa*.
13.) As you recover from your concussion the magistrate at the jail will examine the 12 steps you took to getting here and determine that you are literally too stupid to know what your genitals are for, let alone how they are used.
Congratulations! You got away with rape. However, you have been charged with Felony Assault and will be staying in jail learning empirically why rape is a bad thing.
*Grandpa is the intake officer who, although resembling a good natured Polish chef, is the guy who all the other intake officers (and prisoners) edge away from quietly when a new prisoner is acting a fool. I have personally observed him lift a 6'7" drunk 350 lb man and smash his head on the floor. Messing with Grandpa is considered a roundabout form of suicide in 35 states, and a form of tax evasion in the other 15.
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