A few years back, in my Fast Lane Magazine column, I wrote a little rant concerning drinking and driving. As we enter the holiday season, I think you might find it educational.
The Cab Guy Pleads for Sober Driving
Now, before we begin the fun, I would like to make a seasonal plea for sanity during the upcoming holiday party season. I know that some of you who are reading this are going to totally ignore the advice that I am about to give, but that’s okay, because there are always going to be idiots that cannot do the right thing, no matter what the situation. Therefore, this little slug of advice that I am going to impart is for the rest of you out there, who can change, if given reason enough to do so. So here it is: DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE!
Because Fast Lane Magazine is distributed in quite a few bars, clubs and lounges throughout the Valley, the chances are, those of you who are reading this right now probably received your copy from a drinking establishment. I am hoping that if you are reading this while you are in a bar, club or lounge, and you are consuming a tasty adult beverage, you will do the right thing, the smart thing, and take a taxi home. You have no excuse not to, as so many of the cab companies in the Valley offer some form of a "free ride back" program, where you pay for a cab ride home, and the cab company gives you a free ride back to your car in the morning. What could be easier?
If a personal plea from me, your Cab Guy, isn’t enough to keep you from getting behind the wheel after having one or more adult beverages, and if the offer of a "free ride back" isn’t enough to keep you off the road when you aren’t 100% sober, then you must be one of those people who thinks that he or she is okay to drive because you haven’t had that much to drink. I guess the thinking goes something like this:
"I haven’t had that much to drink, so I won’t be over the 'legal limit' of 0.08 percent blood alcohol content, therefore I cannot be convicted of Driving While Intoxicated, so I must be okay to drive!"
People, what kind of thinking is this? Although you may have a blood alcohol content below.08, that does not mean you are safe to drive, and it certainly does not mean that you cannot be convicted of Driving Under the Influence.
I know that at this very moment, some of you are thinking, "Hey Cab Guy, if my BAC is below.08, how can I be convicted of DUI?"
Well folks, listen up, pay attention, and you might learn something. DWI and DUI are not the same thing!
That’s right, folks, DWI and DUI are not the same thing. They are two separate offenses, exclusive of each other, and are treated as such in the Arizona Criminal Code. DWI relates to the amount of alcohol that you have in your system at the time that you operate a motor vehicle, while DUI relates to the effect of alcohol on your ability to safely operate a motor vehicle. You can be convicted of DUI if you drive after having only one drink containing alcohol, if it impairs your ability to drive "to the slightest degree."
Once again for, the condensed version, for the mouth breathers: even if your blood alcohol content is under. 08, you can be convicted of DUI! So stop putting yourself, and others, in danger: if you’ve been drinking, even if it’s only a little, don’t get behind the wheel. Take a cab, or have a sober friend drive you home!
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Since I first wrote this, several years ago, Arizona's DWI-DUI laws have gotten even more draconian. More and more people are finding this out the hard way, by having to spend significant time in jail, as well as thousands of dollars in legal fees, fines and extra insurance premiums, for being what they thought was "okay to drive."
Plus, having to deal with the costs associated with a suspended driver's license isn't a lot of fun, either. Get a DWI-DUI, and your chances of meeting me or one of my cohorts in person will significantly increase. How dumb will you feel to have a perfectly serviceable car in your driveway, but still
Please don't be a statistic. Don't drink and drive. Ever. Even one may be too many.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
A Holiday Plea for Sober Driving
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Thanksgiving Wishes, and a Wild Ride to Boot!
Hello my friends, thanks for calling on me, business has been a little slow lately, and I could use a few more 'personal' trips like this. At the time I wrote this, the Thanksgiving pig-out is still several days away. I’m going to go out on a limb here and predict I will probably consume about three times as many calories in a single sitting as I usually do in an entire day. And since I am a pretty big guy, that is, quite frankly, a scary thought.
I hope all of you reading this have a pleasant Thanksgiving season, and are truly grateful for all that you have received in your life. I know that I am, although I don’t always remember to consider it so.
Now, although I am not a character in the little tale to follow, it is, in fact, a true Taxi Tale. As a matter of fact, I happen to think it is one of the best Taxi Tales I have heard in a long time, and I’ve heard hundreds of them. The protagonist, whoops, I’m sorry, I guess I should have said main character or hero, is currently a truck driver, but he used to drive a cab in Seattle. His name is Mike L., and I met him while playing poker one night out at Gila River’s Wildhorse Pass Casino. Although the poker game was fun, Mike’s telling of his story was the cherry on top. Anyway, sit back, relax, and enjoy Mike’s story, in his own words. I call it…
“How Much to Wenatchee?”
"As I [Mike L.
Anyway, I roll down the window, and ask him if he was the person that called for the cab. He said that he was, so I asked him where it was that he wanted to go. He said that he needed to get to Wenatchee, and wondered if I could give him a good rate. Now, in case you don’t know, a trip from Seattle to Wenatchee takes about four hours, and involves a trip over the mountains east of Seattle. That’s a pretty good run, and if a person was serious, I’d really be up for it, because even allowing for the round trip, I’d still have several hours left of my shift, and with the fare to Wenatchee, plus whatever I could make when I got back to Seattle, I’d have a pretty good payday. I figured this guy was whacked out, and having a little fun at my expense, but I went ahead and offered him a pretty good rate of two hundred dollars.
I really didn’t think that he had that kind of money, so imagine my surprise when he hauled out a wad of cash that would choke an elephant. He handed me the two hundred dollars, and I unlocked the doors, and let him in the car. Now, just as soon as I let him in the car, I knew that I was going to earn my two hundred dollars, because this guy really smelled bad. And what’s worse, it was the dead of winter, so driving to Wenatchee with the windows rolled down was going to be a test of my endurance. But, I thought about the two
As soon as the guy got settled in, I got on the radio to let dispatch know where I was going, and made a few calls on my cell phone to some of the guys I worked with, to see if they had any information regarding the weather conditions along the route I planned to take through Stevens Pass.
At this point the guy sits up real close to the back of my seat and asks me,
‘Do you have to always be talking on the phone and the radio?’
Yes, I tell him, it’s part of the business, I need to keep my company informed of what I’m doing, check on the weather, stuff like that. I’m sorry if it bothers you, I say, but it is part of what I do. Why don’t you just sit back and relax?
At this point the guy kind of
After a few minutes of crying, or moaning, or what have you, my passenger sits up, leans forward, and asks,
Are you going with me all the way?'
'What?', I say.
'You’re gonna go with me all the way, aren’t you?,' he asks.
'Yeah, of course, you’ve paid me, I’ll get you where you’re going.'
This must have pleased him, because in the rear-view mirror, I could see a big smile on his face and he leaned back in the seat. And proceeded to take off his shoes. Revealing the dirtiest, nastiest, smelliest feet I had ever seen! I really didn’t think that after getting a whiff of those beauties that things could get any more interesting, but I was wrong.
For a little while, the guy stayed back in the seat, alternately crying, laughing, and moaning. This was a little freaky, but I didn’t mind, because we were making pretty good time, and I preferred what he was doing, to all the other things that he could have been doing. But, these fun times were too good to last, because after a while he sat up, and again asked me,
‘You’re going with me all the way, aren’t you? You’re really with me all the way, right?’
'Right,' I said, 'whatever.'
All of a sudden, he sat back on the seat, sat up real straight, and asked me if I also practiced the ‘Black Arts.’ I could practically hear the capital letters in the way he said it.
'You practice the Black Arts don’t you? You’re going to take me all the way aren’t you?'
'Yes, of course, I’m going to take you all the way to Wenatchee!,' I said. 'Please just sit back and relax, we’ll be there in just a little while!'
Man, this guy was really starting to freak me out. We were coming up on Stevens Pass, so I really had to concentrate on my driving, and wasn’t paying real close attention to the guy.
Now remember, it was wintertime, and it was cold, and in Washington you have to know that it’s wet and icy on the road. All of a sudden, completely out of the blue, the guy says,
'Come on, let’s go, you said you were going all the way with me!' Then he opened the curbside door, and jumped out of the car.
'Holy Shit!,' I’m thinking, the guy just jumped out of my moving car!
I look in the rear-view mirror, and see him tumbling end over end. I brake to a stop as quickly as I can, and back up to check on the guy, but already, in my mind, I’m thinking that I’m going to be calling in to report a dead body to the police. As I back up, I see the guy get up, and stagger around a bit. I’m so relieved to see that he’s okay,
Well, I got out my flashlight, but when I looked over the edge, I couldn’t see him at all. Since we were deep in the mountains, neither my cell phone, nor my two-way radio, were working. I had to drive up the top of the pass to use a pay phone at a gas station that was closed. Then I drove back to the place he jumped, and waited for help.
Because it was such an isolated location, it took a while for a Sheriff’s Deputy to arrive on the scene. When he did, I relayed the story, just the way I’ve told you. Then I got his nasty, smelly shoes out of my car, and gave them to the deputy. I told the deputy that if the guy survived, he’d probably want his shoes back. I then got back in my car, and started driving back to Seattle.
When I got back into range, I got a message on the two-way that dispatch had been informed by the Sheriff’s Department what had happened, and I was to call dispatch, to give them the details. So, I got out my cell phone, and called the company. The dispatcher said that he had only one question for me, because everyone was really curious, and wanted to know: did I get the money up front, or not?
I couldn’t believe it! After all I went through, the guy freaking me out, jumping out of the car, jumping over the cliff, and then disappearing, and all they wanted to know was if I got the money up front. What the hell could they be thinking?
I’m a professional! Of course I got the money up front!
But, that isn’t the end of the story.
A few hours later, I was told to call the Sheriff’s Department, which I did. The deputy I spoke to told me that my passenger had been found. Naked. That’s right… naked! He was just walking around naked, apparently physically unharmed. He was taken to the local looney-bin, and checked in for a little rest.
But… that’s not the end of the story.
A few weeks later, I picked up a doctor at that same mental hospital. I asked him if he had heard the story, and asked me if I was the driver. I said I was, and asked what happened to the guy.
He said, 'Oh, we shipped that wack-o out of here!'
So, at least now I know the official medical term for what was wrong with the guy! He was a wack-o!"
Thus ended Mike's story.
There you have it friends. Just remember, contrary to what Forest Gump said, life is not like a box of chocolates. It’s more like a jar of jalapeno peppers: what you eat today could burn you in the ass tomorrow! See you next time.
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
(A version of this posting previously appeared in my Fast Lane Magazine Column, "Road Rage - Tales From the Taxi!")
Thursday, November 15, 2007
How About A Flat Rate?
Sometimes it seems to me that everyone is trying to "get over" on the cabby. At least once a day some Nimrod will get into my cab and ask me for a "flat rate" which is to say, a firm declaration on my part at the beginning of a trip how much I will charge the passenger at the end of the trip.
Now, I know some people, based on past experience, having taken the same trip dozens, or maybe even hundreds of times, already know the approximate fare of the trip they're about to take, and don’t want to have to fumble around with paying me, and then waiting for their change. They already know that the cost will be about, say, $12.00, and they would just as soon give it to me up front, and settle back and enjoy the ride.
These types of people are being honest and upfront with me, and usually say something like,
"I normally pay $12.00, with a two dollar tip; is that good for you?"
In cases like this, I quickly estimate the fare in my head, and if it’s close, I take the money, and off we go.
However, for other people, there is a more sinister motive. What they want to do is pay less than the service is worth, usually a lot less. These folks will ask for a flat rate from point A to point B, knowing that if I accept it, they are going to have the opportunity to con me into believing that the service they actually want is the service to which I agreed.
It usually goes something like this: "Fifteen okay for this trip?"
If I say yes, then all of a sudden they start asking for detours and extra stops along the way, in essence, cheating me out of my proper recompense. I can usually sniff out these morons, because their speech and body language gives them away.
I like to have fun with them, and ask a question like,
"Hey, do you have to negotiate your paycheck with your boss?"
Of course, I usually get a response like, "What do you mean?"
I say, "Well, what if, when you go to work in the morning, your boss was to say, 'Hey, how about I only pay you half of your hourly wage today?' Would you go for something like that?"
"Hell, no! He ain’t gonna rip me off that way!"
This is when I retort, "'Hell No!' is right, and I'm the same way. I don't negotiate my paycheck, and I don't do '
"Besides which, speaking of flats, if it comes to that, I’ve got a spare in the trunk."
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
(This little rant was excerpted from my column, "Road Rage: Tales From the Taxi," and appeared in a February, 2003, issue of
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Thanks for the Tip!
I used to be a regular contributor to a Phoenix area entertainment guide known as Fast Lane Magazine in a column called "Road Rage: Tales from the Taxi." The following story first appeared in my column published in the January 8, 2004 issue. This keep this in mind while reading it, as there are some less than timely references to Christmas and Saddam Hussein.
I decided to post this piece here, at this time, because I thought it would be a nice complement to my last posting, which involved roast beef sandwiches and bumper-stickers, but also included a rant about how some people don't tip. Okay, the part about Saddam Hussein isn't really germain to the whole tipping thing, but it was in the column then, and for the sake of artistic integrity (giggle!) I've left it in here. Here goes...
Hello again, my friends, it’s certainly good to see you! I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to get together, as I hope that what I have to say will bring some joy into your lives at this most festive time of the year. Here we are, near the end of yet another year. My year was certainly full and blessed, and I hope yours was, also. Although, for personal reasons of belief I do not celebrate Christmas, I do so enjoy this time of year as people make plans to celebrate with loved ones, and also make plans for the New Year to come.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I do think that we have quite a lot to celebrate about. For one, everyone who is reading this column has, at the very least, survived another year, and had at least that opportunity to improve their situation, and that of their loved ones. For another, although, sadly, America is still virtually at war in Iraq, that arch-enemy of peace, Saddam Hussein, has been hunted to the ground, quite literally, and captured, thus bringing us, and the Iraqi people, just a little bit closer to closure in this matter. As your Cab Guy, I was amused at the news that there was a taxi parked outside of the house where Saddam’s hidey-hole was discovered. Apparently, he had been using it to get around during the time that he was on the run. I wonder if he was a big tipper? My instinct tells me that if the driver even asked for the fare, let alone a tip, he would have received a bullet in his head for his troubles!
I don’t know about you, but I wonder how Saddam felt in his last few days of freedom. In moments of quiet reverie, I pretend I am he, and imagine what he would think:
“You know, I never would have thought it would come to this, trapped in this shitty little hole in the ground. I mean come on! I’m Saddam Hussein, the dictator of Iraq, chief of what was once the fourth largest army on the planet. For over thirty years I’ve done things my own way. If someone didn’t like it, tough shit, I fed them a bullet."
"Where did I slip up? Was it Iran? Kuwait? The Kurds, damn their eyes? What? What went wrong? Those puissant Americans! Who would have thought a couple of Bushes could have brought down a might oak like myself?"
"And so here I am, stuck in this shitty little hole in the ground, sharing a blanket with about a million lice, down to my last $750,000 dollars. Shit… this really sucks!”
I wonder if Saddam Hussein ever thinks about me? I don’t know, maybe Fast Lane Magazine makes it to Iraq every now and again. If that’s the case…
“Hey Saddam… think your little grotto in the desert sucked? (Pointing to my crotch) Suck this, you miserable little canker sore!”
Alright, enough about that guy, I’d better shut up before I really get started. Let’s move on to the actual humor section of this edition of Road Rage. Allow me to bring to you an amusing little tale of whimsy, entitled:
"Thanks for the Tip!"
The other day I was talking to another cab guy that I know. (Notice how he is “cab guy” in lower-case? There can only be one upper-case “Cab Guy”, and he is me!) After chipping our gums for a few minutes, he told me that yet another cab guy had just told him a story that he thought would be perfect for my column. Smart-ass that I am, I told him that I was the sole judge of all things perfect for my column, but he could take his best shot. So he told me the story that the other cab guy had just finished telling him.
I had to admit, that it would, in fact, be perfect for my column. Always desiring to hear the story straight from the horse’s ass, I mean, mouth, I gave him my card, and asked him to have the other guy call me when he next saw him. Well, last night the other guy called me to tell his tale, and since I was still scraping around for something to put in this edition of Road Rage, I welcomed the timeliness of his call. Anyway, the fellow’s name is Alan P., and like me, he has driven a cab in the Valley for a number of years, and has seen a lot of crap in those years. I have to admit, I have never heard anything like this story before, so I’m going to let Alan tell you in his own (paraphrased) words:
“Well, the other day, I picked up this lady who told me that she needed to get home. She told me where she lived, so off we went. Had I’d know what was going to happen, I would have asked for the money up front, because I knew it was going to be about a $30.00 fare, but as she was reasonably well dressed, and wasn’t acting weird, I didn’t even consider her to be the type of person who would “cab and dash.”
"As we pulled into her apartment complex, she told me that the speed bumps were really terrible, and that I needed to slow way down. As we came up on a speed bump, she reminded me to slow down, which I did, almost to a full stop. When I did that, she was out of the car like a shot. By the time that I put the car in park, got out of my seat belt and got out of the car, she had already made her way between two buildings in the complex, and was gone.'
"Well, obviously I was more that a little pissed, and disappointed at the loss of thirty dollars, but, it wasn’t the first time ever that I was stiffed, and probably won’t be the last time, so I sucked it up and went back to the car. When I got to the car, I went ahead and checked out the back seat, like I always do after every passenger, just to see if she had left anything of value behind. Imagine my shock when I saw a lady’s clutch purse there on the back seat."
"I opened the door to retrieve the purse. Imagine my delight to see, upon opening the purse, that not only was my passenger’s picture ID was in the wallet, but the address on the wallet was for the complex where I had let her off! But wait, there’s more! Guess what else was in the purse? $65.00! What a stupid lady she was, to run out on a thirty dollar fare, leaving her purse, ID and sixty-five dollars behind!"
"The way I figure it, she probably was just a little pressed for time, so rather that hold it against her, I took the money, put into the wallet a note that said, “Thanks for the big tip, I appreciate it!”, and turned her purse in at the complex office!”
I couldn’t resist telling that story to several other people, who all agreed that it was definitely worthy of inclusion in Road Rage. But wait, there’s more! Cab drivers are as a group, like many other groups, subject to telling war stories. Put two or more cabbies together at one location, and sooner or later, one of them will say, “Hey, I got to tell you about this fare that I had the other day!”, and then proceed to tell a story that the other cabbie has likely lived through. (You know what I mean, it’s like Hollywood: although the actors may be different, the plot rarely changes.) When he’s finished, the second guy will probably tell a story, and likely as not, try to top the first guy’s story.
Well, in this instance, I was not surprised to hear someone tell me what they would have done, had Alan’s story happened to him. This guy, let’s just call him “Pete” says he would have tacked a different ending on to his story. Really, I say, do tell! And so he did. Here’s Pete’s version:
“Well, if I had found that broad’s purse, I’d have taken the money alright, but I wouldn’t have stopped there. I would have wanted her to suffer a little bit, just like me, and I would have wanted to watch. So what I would have done, after stashing the cash, would have been to call the cops, had them come over, and bang on her door. I think it would have been a real hoot to see her sweat, having to explain herself to the cop who told her she had to pay up or go to jail: ‘But, Officer, I had sixty-five dollars in that purse. You should be arresting him for stealing thirty-five dollars from me!’ Man, I would have loved seeing her in the hot seat! It would have been sweet. Of course, after a little while of watching her squirm I’d have told the cop I couldn't waste anymore time, I needed to get back to work, and let her off the hook!”
I told Pete that I thought he was a true gentleman, but I don’t really think that he grasped the irony of my statement.
Well, yet another cabbie, “Jack” seems like as good a name as any, heard me tell Alan’s story, and Pete’s rejoinder, and I guess he just couldn’t resist having a little fun himself, because he said that he had something to throw into the mix.
“Well, I’ve got to agree with Pete. I’d have taken the money, stashed it away, and then called the cops, also. It would have been sweet to see her squirming around like a worm on a hook. I live for shit like that. But there is no way I would have let her off the hook that easy! You’ve got to teach people like that a lesson, one they’re never, ever, going to forget. I call that lesson, ‘Stick it in me, and I’ll break it off in you!’ What I’d have done, when the cops got there, is let her go through her song and dance about having money in the purse. I’m sure that at some point the officer would have said something like, ‘If you had sixty-five dollars in your wallet, why didn’t you just give him thirty of it and be done. Now you owe him the thirty that was on the meter when you ran, plus whatever’s been rung up since then. From here, I can see that the meter is up to sixty dollars, and it’s still running. I suggest you give him that amount, or I’ll have to arrest you for theft.’ I bet she’d have paid up. Now, that’s my idea of justice!”
I’m sure that somewhere, right now as you read this, some cab guy is telling Alan’s story to another cab guy, and throwing in his two cents. I’m sure that sooner or later, one of these jokers is going to claim he would have done all that and more, up to and including hounding her until she ate a gun. One thing about cab guys: through us the milk of human kindness flows quite cold! Until the next time we meet, stay safe, and stay sane! See you next year!
Sincerely,
The Cab Guy
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Brain Farts and Dirty Jokes
Well, hello everyone, so glad you were able to make it to this end of the internet. Here we are in the early part of October. The summer heat finally seems to have abated for another few months. We’ve had a little rain since I last took pen to paper, or should I say, fingers to keyboard. The cab business has been a little slow lately, so I don’t have any actual “Taxi Tales” for this edition. However, I have accumulated quite a few random thoughts that I would like to share with you, as well as a couple of my favorite jokes. So go ahead and sit back and relax while I share my…
Brain Farts and Dirty Jokes
Seems fair to me! - The other day I was reflecting upon the various differences between men and women. For example, some women will put up with sex, so that they can have some cuddling, while many men put up with cuddling, so they can have some sex. If necessary, I’ll tell a woman that I’ll cuddle with her if she’ll have sex with me. Hell, why wouldn’t I make such a promise? I’m just going to fall asleep when we’re done, anyway!
The late night gourmet - Why do so many fast food joints advertise on late night television? If I see a commercial for Wendy’s at midnight, I’m not leaving my house for a burger, regardless of the fact that “Wendy’s rules the night!” If I’m that frickin’ hungry that I just have to have something to eat, I’m going to improvise. Let’s see what’s in my cupboard: ramen noodles, ketchup and allspice. Spaghetti sounds good to me!
Some funny names – I used to work in a government office, and to alleviate to occasional boredom, I would create phony phone messages for my co-workers, using those little “While you were out” forms. These are some of my favorite funny names: Dick Gozinya, Ben Dover, Heywood Yablome, Harry Areola, Phil McKraken, and Seymore Butz. Some of you may find these names to be offensive, and may wish to sue me. That’s okay, just send service to my lawyers: Dewey, Cheatem and Howe.
I have my standards! – Some men will make love to any woman, no matter how repulsive she may be. (Of course, the sme thing might be true for women, with respect to men. But I'm a man, so this is from my point of view.) Now, with all due respect to women everywhere, I have to draw the line at “hideous” and “titanic.” I understand that with my high standards, I’m not going to get laid as often as I could. But what the hell, like the sign says at the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, “Quality Beats Quantity Every Time!” I have to agree, because I remember every woman I have ever made love to, and the way I look at it, if I’m going to be creating a memory, I want it to be a good one!
Why prostitution should be legal – Now, I know that a lot of people are going to disagree with me, some violently so, but I’m going to declare here and now that I think that prostitution should be legal everywhere in America, not just most parts of Nevada. I know that a lot of folks think prostitution should be illegal, because to them it demeans both the women involved, and their customers. Come on, think about it! Working for minimum wage at the Burger Barn isn’t demeaning? Not all women have the opportunity to go to college and get a really great, high paying job. Swing shift manager at the local eatery may be as far up the ladder as a lot of women can get. That may be fine for some, maybe a lot, of women, but options should be available. Oddly enough, in a lot of places where prostitution is illegal, you can hire a woman to perform sex in exchange for money. As long as you’ve got a camera, lighting, and cheesy music. Remember, it’s a performance!
That time of the month – When a woman won’t have sex with me, because she’s near her period, I figure she has PMS, which means I will have to Pleasure My Self!
Filthy language – I think that some people use way too many curse words, such as “fuck” and “shit” in their everyday speech. What the fuck is up with that shit?
Fast food blues – The other day I went into a local fast food restaurant. You know, it’s bad enough that I have to put up with a cold hamburger and limp fries, but I really hate it when I get surly service. Sometimes I feel like yelling at the counterperson, “Hey asshole, you really think I want to be here, either?”
Sexual frenzy – Do you ever smoke after sex? I don’t. I’m usually done long before friction can develop enough heat for fire to be factor to contend with.
Say what? - The other night I was sitting at the bar at my favorite watering hole, drinking my usual club soda. Two women were seated a couple of stools down. At one point, the juke box was changing songs, and during the lull in the music, I overheard one lady say to the other, “Well, that’s just titty bar economics!” I don’t know about you, but I would purely love to have heard the rest of that conversation.
Come again? – That same night, during another lull in the music, I heard one guy talking to another guy about a woman he’d just met, saying, “I’d like to fill her out like an application!” I’m pretty sure they weren’t talking about job opportunities.
What do Popsicles and Politics have in common? – The answer to this riddle is, “Ben and Jerry’s All Natural Ice Cream.” Just in case you haven’t heard, these two aging hippies sell ice cream. And I’ll admit that it’s really good ice cream. But I really don’t need a lecture every time I want to have a cool refreshing snack on a stick. Here’s the best example of wasted ink on the label of an ice cream bar I’ve seen in recent days:
“We oppose Recombinant Bovine Growth Hormone. The family farmers who supply our milk and cream pledge not to treat their cows with rGBH. The FDA has said no significant difference has been shown and no test can now distinguish between milk from rGBH treated and untreated cows. Not all of the suppliers of our other ingredients can promise that the milk they use comes from untreated cows.” (This appeared on the side of a ‘Vanilla Peace Pop.)
What in the hell are these two Hippie Capitalists trying to say? It sort of sounds like they oppose rBGH, whatever the hell that is, enough that they feel that have to make a statement against rBGH, and want you the consumer to know that they want to protect you against this scourge.
Okay, fine. Allow me to retort. Hey, Ben and Jerry, listen up! If you think rBGH is something that I should not consume, don’t just tell me that you oppose it. Keep it out of your friggin’ ice cream. If it’s bad shit, I want no part of it! If you think it’s so freakin’ important that I don’t eat rBGH milk, then DEMAND that your suppliers pledge not to use rBGH, and hold them to their pledges! Don’t tell me about how you would like to be virtuous. Show me that you are virtuous. Or shut the hell up. Maybe next time I’ll just get Hagen-Daz!
Okay, I promised you some dirty jokes, and here they are. Mind you, I did not write these jokes, I read them in Drew Carey’s Book, “Dirty Jokes and Beer - Stories of the Unrefined,” which, by the way, is a very funny book. Drew says that he didn’t make these jokes up, so I guess it’s all right to repeat them here. The titles are mine.
What a Pair! – A woman is at a bar, drinking and depressed. A man walks in and sits next to her. He, too, is drinking and depressed. After a time, the man asks the woman, What are you so depressed about?” She says, “My husband left me because he thought I was too kinky.” He says, “Really? My wife left me because she thought that I was too kinky!"
They order another drink, and she says to him, “Hey, listen we’re both adults here, and it looks like we may have a little something in common… whaddya say we go back to my place and see what happens? ”He says, “Sounds like a great idea!” And they finish their drinks and leave.
When they get to her place, she says to him, “Wait right here, I’m going to change into something a little more comfortable.” She goes to her bedroom and puts on some black leather boots with six-inch heels, a leather miniskirt, a rubber bra with the nipples cut out, a dog collar and a leather hood. She then grabs a riding crop and some handcuffs and saunters seductively out to the living room where she sees the guy putting on his coat and hat and heading out the door.
“Where ya going?” she asks. “I thought we were going to get kinky!”
“Hey,” he says, “I fucked your dog, I shit in your purse… I’m outta here!”
Oops! - There’s a guy who lives in Ohio. One morning, he hears a voice in his head. The voice says,
“Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.”
He ignores the voice. Later in the day, he hears the voice again.
“Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.”
Again, he ignores the voice. Soon he hears the voice every minute of the day.
“Quit your job, sell your house, take all your money, and go to Las Vegas.”
He can’t take it anymore. He believes the voice. He quits his job, takes all of his money, and flies to Las Vegas. As soon as he steps off the plane, the voice says,
Go to Caesar’s Palace.”
He goes to Caesar’s Palace. The voice says,
“Make your way to the roulette table.
He goes to the roulette table. The voice says,
Put all your money on red 23.”
He puts all his money on red 23. The dealer spins the wheel. It comes up black 17.
The voice says, “Fuck.”
Okay, well that’s all there is this time around. I hope you enjoyed yourself. I appreciate having this opportunity to relieve a little of the pressure that’s been building up inside my skull.
Until we meet again…
(A version of this work first appeared in the October 16, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine" a bi-weekly, Phoenix area entertainment magazine, under the byline of "Matt 'The Cab Guy' Kelly").
Thursday, October 4, 2007
The Hooker, The Horndog, and The Hamburger
Well, it’s certainly good to see you again, my friends. Thanks for calling. I’d say it’s time for a little fun. Jump in the cab, and let’s go for a ride. This one’s on me.
Now, I don’t know about you, but the summer heat was really beginning to get to me. Actually, it’s not the heat at all, but all the (half) wits that constantly ask, "Is it hot enough for you?”
"I like to have a little fun with these morons, usually saying something like: Actually, I consider these kind of brutal temperatures to be merely a “warm up” for the eternity I will spend in Hell, a fate to be earned for the brutal murder I have decided to commit. I have chosen as my victim the one-thousandth person who asks me that question this summer. Wait a minute! Let me check my scorecard. (I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket, and pretend to consult it.) Yeah, I thought so. I was up to nine hundred, ninety-nine yesterday, and you’re today’s first…
You have my permission to try this yourself. The looks you’ll see are always good for a laugh.
Hey, you might get a kick out of these three short stories. I call this triplet
“The Hooker, the Horndog, and the Hamburger"
The Hooker
You know, I really enjoy being a professional cab driver. Apart from the obvious attractions of the job (like the low pay and long hours), I get to meet all sorts of very interesting people. Why just the other day I met this very charming young lady. She was dressed in not much more than boots, hot pants and belly shirt. I was at the corner of Twenty-Fourth and Van Buren (which if you're not familiar with Phoenix is a notorious "hooker walk"), when she walked up to me and asked if I was in service.
Well, folks, your Cab Guy is always “in service,” so I said, "You bet!”
She hops in the back seat, and I ask her where she’s going. Now, I don’t recall exactly where it was she was going, but I do seem to remember that it was only about two or three miles. She asked how much the fare was going to be. I told her that it would be about five or six dollars. She then inquired if, rather than charging her for the trip, I would take a blowjob instead. Sadly, friends, I had to decline. I told her that I could not accommodate her in that particular fashion. She became indignant, asking,
"Why the Hell not? Listen, you’re telling me that the fare is only five or six dollars. You gotta know that a blowjob is worth twenty!"
"Maybe so,” I say.
“The problem is, I can’t make change for a blowjob!”
So she paid cash. No tip though. Well, that’s a hooker for you! “Loose puss, tight purse," I always say!
The Horndog
Like I said, I meet all kinds of folks. Later that same night I was working in Scottsdale, and this guy flags me down, and gets into my cab. Now, friends, it was obvious that he was drunk, but until he told me so, it was not obvious that he was from out of town. (Not that I discriminate against “out-of-towners.” I do my best to be scrupulously fair, and charge everyone the same. As much as I can!) Anyway, he proceeds to tell me that he is from Chicago, and that he’s just in town for the weekend, on business. Then he asks me to take him to “where the hookers hang out.” Business trip? Funny business, more like it!
Well, of course your Cab Guy is hip. I know all the hot spots, although most visitors to our fair city usually ask me to take them to a nice bar or restaurant, or the closest movie theater. But who am I to judge? As a matter of fact, being a professional driver for hire, I love these kinds of trips. Most guys can’t make up their minds right away, and just like a kid in toy store, they have to look at all the merchandise being offered, before they make up their minds as to what to buy. Many times, this can involve several passes up and down the boulevard before the “purchase order” is placed, if you know what I mean. Meanwhile, the meter is running. And in the cab business, time, most assuredly, is money! So, anyway, I flip the meter on, and off we go.
Now a lot of people like to make conversation during their cab ride, and I am very happy to accommodate them, because, after all, I am first and foremost, a “people person.” This guy was no different, talking about his job and such like, and asking me questions about Arizona and the Phoenix area. Pretty soon we arrived in the part of town where the hookers hang out, and this guy throws me a curve ball, saying that he wants to get out and walk around a bit, that he’d call when he was ready for a ride back to his hotel. Disappointed as I was at the loss of all that “drive time”, I said
“Very good, sir,”
and pulled into a handy parking lot to let him out. As I was about to tell him the fare, all of a sudden, out of the blue, he asks me,
“Hey, Buddy, how much is a blowjob!”
I found this inquiry, and it’s implications, to be somewhat offensive, so I asked him,
“Sir, is it customary in Chicago for cab drivers to blow their customers? I’m curious, because here in Phoenix we usually just pick ‘em up and drop ‘em off.”
He was somewhat taken aback by this, saying,
“Sorry, Buddy, I think you misunderstand me. I mean, how much do the hookers charge?”
“Sir,” I reply, somewhat tersely,
“I believe I understand you perfectly well. I realize that to you I must seem like some nameless, faceless schmo, just a cabbie, a working class grunt, hardly fit to move about in the rarified realms of what you must consider to be polite society. However, I insist upon drawing the line at this implied slur on my character, little of it that I have, and so I must ask you, do I really look like the kind of degenerate who frequents the company of hookers, to the extent that I would have intimate knowledge of the fees they require for their services?"
He appeared stunned, shocked by my response to what he obviously believed to be a routine question, one that could be asked of any taxi driver in any city of the world, with the expectation of the receipt of a simple answer like “Twenty bucks.” He looked at me for several seconds, obviously not knowing what to say.
And then, suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown in his skull, I can see the little light bulb go on. His brain has finally analyzed what I just said to him, and he doesn’t like the obvious implication. So he says,
“H-e-e-e-y-y-y! Are you implying that I’m a degenerate?”
“Sir,” I reply, “I prefer not to make implications when bold statements of fact will do. Suffice it to say that I am not a degenerate. As to your own moral inadequacies, well, that I leave to you. Good day to you, Sir, that will be twenty dollars.”
Oddly enough, he didn’t give much of a tip. And I thought that we had been getting on well together. Some people!
The Hamburger
It was later on that same evening that I realized that we as a society use computers way too much, and it’s making some people dumber. I stopped into a local fast food franchise, intending to procure my evening meal. Now, I don’t want to reveal the name of the chain, but this clown at the drive through window told me that the store was closed; I’d have to go to another location. Being hungry, and a little perturbed by this turn of events, I asked him how this could be so.
“I mean,” I asked, “Aren’t you open twenty-four hours a day?”
“Yes we are, under normal circumstances. But the computers are down.”
So I said, “Now, call me old fashioned, but what in the hell does a computer have to do with cooking up a burger and fries? I’ve always thought that you just had someone throw the meat on the grill, and stand by to turn it when each side was done.”
“Actually, Sir,” he said, “We don’t actually use the computer to cook the burger."
I knew I was going to have problems with this guy after hearing him use the word "actually" two times in one sentence.
"But," he continued, "it does run the cash register, which I need in order to make the sale.”
“Let me tell you something, kiddo,”
I say at this point,
“I’ve been ordering the same hamburger for years. It’s been priced at ninety-nine cents, plus tax, for years. Now I know, and you know, and I know you know, and you know I know you know, that the price of the burger, fully loaded, with all the bells and whistles, including license, tax, registration, dealer prep and delivery fees, comes to exactly one dollar and eight cents! So why don't you just cook the damn hamburger, give it to me, I’ll give to the money, and you can write down the sale and enter it later. That way everyone’s happy, or at least I’m happy, and that’s all that really matters, right? Make the freakin’ customer happy, right?"
"‘Cause I gotta tell you, right now I am very unhappy, and you hold the power to end my unhappiness, and bring a little joy in my otherwise bleak existence. Come on! Look at me! I’m driving a cab, for God’s sake! You have to know how much that hamburger means to me! It’s more than just sustenance! Right now, it’s my lifeline to sanity! A reminder that I can have things from a life outside of the inside of this cab! Please, oh God, please, make me a hamburger! I am begging you to show some compassion! Feed me! Feed Me!”
Well, that hamburger man must have been made of titanium, because he just wouldn’t budge. My story had left him unmoved, for nary a teardrop did I see at the corners of his eyes, which weren’t even moist. He watched me abase myself, reducing myself to a quivering lump of jelly, begging for a burger, but still, he would not help me.
Woe was me. Hell, for all I know, it was the computer that had the instructions for making the burger, which would prove my assertion that computers are making us dumber. I drove out of there a broken, hungry, saddened man, filled with the realization that the milk of human kindness just does not flow from some people, but empty of burger.
Sigh. I guess next time I’ll pack a lunch.
Well, friends, I’ve enjoyed our time together. These are all true stories. They actually happened exactly the way I have told them to you. I may have exaggerated just a little, in the interests of poetic license, and all that, but it’s the truth nonetheless. I’ll see you all next time. Please exit on the curb side of the vehicle, and watch your step getting out.
Have a nice day, and so long!
(A version of this post first appeared in the July 10, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.')
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Last Minute Express
The other day I had a call to pick up a guy (let’s just call him “John”), in Gilbert, and take him to the airport. I was supposed to be there at 1:00pm, but as the call was sent to me just a few minutes before 1:00, and because I was unfamiliar with his neighborhood, which was a brand new subdivision, and because traffic was rather heavy, I was about fifteen minutes late picking John up.
When I got to his address, he got into my cab and began to berate me for being late, as it was very important that he make his flight. We had to be to the airport by two-fifteen. Since we were about thirty or forty minutes from the airport, I knew that it was going to be a really close call.
I thought to myself,
“You know, only a moron would allow so little time for such an important trip. Even if he was absolutely certain he’d be picked up on time, you’d think that he might have enough imagination to allow for time killers like flat tires and heavy traffic.”
But, rather than saying this him, I said,
“No problem sir, we’ll be to the airport by about two o’clock.”
He visibly relaxed, and off we go.
After a few minutes, John said to me,
“You know, I don’t have my ticket yet, so we need to stop and pick it up.”
Did he just say, ‘I don’t have my ticket yet?’
“Well, where do we have to go to get it?”, I said.
He replies, “Well, he lives at about Fifty Second Street and Van Buren, and because he’s leaving his house soon, we need to be there by a quarter to two.”
Talk about pressure! I was pretty sure I’d get him to the airport by two, but with this side trip, I now had my doubts, because it’s already one twenty-five, and we were still almost twenty miles from Ticket Guy’s house. We were going to have to hit every traffic light green, and go balls to the walls on the freeway to even have a chance. Needless to say, I’m a little worried. You would be, too! But I’m a professional, so I tell the guy that I’d do my best, but I wouldn’t risk a ticket or wreck.
I put the hammer down, and offered to lend him my cell phone to call Ticket Guy to buy a few minutes, but he had his own phone, and sensibly, made the call. Ticket Guy didn’t answer. It figures! Anyway, by driving an average of about ten miles per hour over the speed limit, I got Mr. Leave-It-To-The-Last-Minute to Ticket Guy’s house with about five minutes to spare. Whew, what a relief! Not only was Ticket Guy at home, but John came back to the car with a smile on his face!
So, it’s now about one-forty, and we’re only about ten minutes from the airport. As long as nothing goes wrong, I’m going to get him there with plenty of time to spare.
Now, under normal circumstances, this would pretty much be the end of the story. But, if you’ve read my column for any length of time, you know this isn’t the end of the story. (Can anyone out there guess what is coming next? Yes? No? Maybe? Well, read on.) By the way, I forgot to mention that I had been sucking on a Super-Duper Extra Large size soda for about an hour, and a few minutes after picking John up, I began to feel a slight urge to find a tree. As we left Ticket Guy’s place, that slight urge began to move a little higher up on my list of things to do. Just what I needed at this particular moment in time: more pressure! Anyway, back to our story; where were we? Oh yeah…
So, it’s now about one-forty, and we’re about ten minutes from the airport, plenty of time for John to make his flight. As we pull out on to the road, John says to me,
“You know, airplane food is terrible, and I’m really hungry. Take me to the Jack-In-The-Box drive through.”
Well, why the hell not? It’s only about a mile away, in the opposite direction, is likely to have a seven car wait, but, hell, we’ve got plenty of time to spare, lets go for it! As I turn the car around towards The Jack, I began thinking,
"What’s up with this jag-off? He was practically screaming at me half an hour earlier for being late, but now he’s telling me that there’s nothing more important in his life at this very minute than a freakin’ Jumbo Jack with cheese, which he just has to have before he gets on the plane, which at this point is looking like it’s going to get in the air before the first French fry gets down his cake-hole. What the hell is up with this guy!”
But, ever the Helpy Helperton, I say,
“Jack-In-The-Box it is, sir!”
Luckily, there wasn’t a line at all, but the service was really slow, with a net result of only about ten of his precious minutes being chewed up, much like what he did to two Jumbo Jack’s, and a large fries. It’s now about one-fifty, but we’re still not much more than ten minutes from the airport, so I’m going to have John to the airport at about exactly two o’clock, which is what he said he wanted in the first place. With any luck at all, I’ll be able to put an “X” in the box marked, “Another satisfied customer.”
But wait! There’s more! Mr. “Leave it all to the last minute, fuck-it, I like living on the edge, because it gives me such a rush!” has additional plans that must come to fruition before I can finally drop him at the check-in counter, so he can haul his sorry ass up the jetway and get on that big silver bird. Now, I know what you’re thinking, because I was thinking it, too:
“What the hell else can he possibly need to do, seeing that time, precious time, is so short?”
Well, friends, let me tell you, although it blows my mind to remember it, just as we’re pulling into the airport, John pulls out his cell phone, and calls what sounds like his wife. He talks to her for about a minute, and when we’re about three seconds from turning off onto the ramp leading to the terminal, he tells me there’s going to be another short side trip, because he wants to go give his wife a kiss goodbye! He says to me,
“She works over near Twenty-Fourth Street and University. We can be there and back by two-fifteen, right?”
Can you believe it? I still cringe when I recall the moment…Anyway, I’m thinking,
“Why in the hell should you stop at a kiss! Why not grab the wife AND the kids, get a picnic basket from the nearest deli, head on out to the park and make a fuckin’ day of it. We’ve got plenty of time! The plane, and whatever you we’re going to do when you finally get where you were going, can wait! Let’s live for the moment! How about we go to a strip club, shove some dollars into the G-strings of a few strippers, and really get down! Then, when the excitement of seeing all those naked titties begins to pale, let’s stop and get the cab washed, waxed, and detailed!! And what the hell, while we’re at it, let’s stop and get a hooker, and have her suck some of the tension out of what is by now an extremely tense situation, at least from my point of view.”
And why shouldn’t I be tense? If this guy misses his flight, you and I both know it’s going to be his fault, but I know who he’s going to blame. That’s right, your Cab Guy! He’s not going to consider all the side trips he added on to the trip, he’s just going to think about how I picked him up twenty minutes late. There’s just now way I can win. But what I say is…
“Sure, why not, I’m kind of a romantic at heart, let’s go for it!”
What the hell, the meter’s running, isn’t it? Just as long as he doesn’t ask at the end of the trip if I take credit cards, because it takes a couple of minutes to process the transaction, and I want this guy gone.
So, anyway, we go over to where John’s wife works. When we get there, he calls her out, and they stand there hugging and kissing for a few minutes. I’m starting to get diabetes, the scene was so sweet. They kiss one last time, and as she turns to walk away, John gets back into the car, shuts the door, leans back with a contented look on his face, and sighs. I’m touched. He says,
“Okay, we can go back to the airport now, I’ll still make the plane on time.”
Well, it’s about freakin’ time, because I’ve got to piss like a racehorse. Relief is just a few minutes away. Away we go…
As we pull into the terminal, I say,"Thank you for your business sir. That will be sixty-five dollars.”
And he says, (All together now, with feeling and harmony…)
“Do you take credit cards?”
I almost wet my pants!
Until next we meet…
(A version of this column first appeared in the December 11-24, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.'
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Gas Can and the Traffic Cop
Hello again, my good friends. I’m glad that you could come along on this week’s journey. Since we last conversed, not one person has asked me, “Well, is it hot enough for you?” I guess the word got out that I hate this question. But it has been a hot summer so far here in the Metro Phoenix area. Here’s a good survival technique: stay inside as much as possible!
But seriously folks, no matter where you are, drink plenty of fluids, and don’t forget the same for your car’s radiator. As a matter of fact, while we’re talking about it, go ahead and fill up a gallon jug with water, and put it in the trunk of your car, just in case. You never know when you, or the car, are going to need a drink. Nothing beats planning, that’s what I always say. Say, that reminds me of a couple of short little anecdotes.
"The Gas Can"
I think that it’s always a good thing to plan for every contingency, or at least as many as you can think of. However, I know there are people out there who think they are good planners, but in reality, aren’t. I mean, on the surface, it appears they have good planning skills, but when you get right down to it, they really don’t have a clue. Here’s a good example. The other day I was tooling down the freeway when I came upon this car off to the side of the road, with its’ flashers blinking. As I went by, I saw that there was no one in the car. A few seconds later, I came upon a guy walking down the side of the freeway, carrying a little red can. Ah, the mystery is solved! I pulled over, and gave him a ride to the nearest gas station, and didn’t charge him for the effort. He thanked me, and I went on my way, as I had to pick someone up few minutes later.
As I drove away, I got to thinking about this fellow’s lack of ability in the effective planning department. Of course, some of you have figured out what’s going on, and agree with me: the guy was a poor planner. And I know that some of you reading this right now are saying, “Lack of planning? Cab Guy, the dude was obviously a planner! He had a gas can in the car, just in case he ran out of gas! If that’s not planning, tell me what is, smart guy!” Well, to you folks I say, yeah, you’re right, the guy was a planner. But what he planned to do was run out of gas!
That’s right, he planned to run out of gas. Why else would he have a little red gas can in his trunk? I mean, it’s not the same thing as having jumper cables in the car, just in case your battery goes dead. Most of the time that you need your jumper cables, your battery went dead without any warning whatsoever. But when was the last time your gas tank went empty with no warning whatsoever? It just doesn’t happen.
Now, a few years ago, a buddy of mine had a car that gave audible warnings for various conditions his car was in. For example, if he left his lights on after turning off the engine, a little voice would say, “Lights are on!” My friend would then turn his lights off. Anyway, I was thinking, for those people who carry the little red gas can in the trunk, what they really need is this sort of audible warning system, because it’s obvious they either:
a) pay absolutely no attention to the gas gauge; b) don’t believe it anyway, or:
c) pay attention to the gauge, know it is correct, but believe that the truth doesn’t apply to them in this particular situation. (Oh yes, there are indeed people who have just such a warped sense of reality!)
So Detroit, give these people a little help, and put an audible gas warning in cars. Here are my suggestions for the warning statements:
1. “You have less than a quarter of a tank of gas remaining. Might I suggest you fill up soon?”
2. “Your fuel situation is getting critical. You have two gallons of gas remaining. Please stop for gas in the next few minutes.”
3. “Hey, buddy. I’m working off fumes. How about we get some gas? Now!”
4. “Uh, dude, I hope you have got on some comfortable shoes, ‘cause you’ll be walkin’ real soon!”
5. (As the car comes to a juddering halt.) “Okay, I tried to warn you, but no, you wouldn’t listen! You figured you could stretch it just a few more miles. Well, screw you, Einstein! I’m empty! Get out, and start walking! And take that stupid little red can with you, moron!”
You know, I’m not really sure this would cure the problem of people running out of gas, now that I think about it. Considering that most of today’s cars not only have the gas gauge, and a light that comes on when you’re low on gas, but quite a few cars come with “Distance to Empty” displays, and people still manage to run out of gas! It’s nice to know that technology doesn’t change some things. Like stupidity.
"The Traffic Cop"
Speaking of planning, I really think that all of you reading this should have a plan for what to say when a cop stops you. I really do, because, eventually, almost everyone will be pulled over for one reason or another. If you haven’t had the experience, don’t worry, you probably will. Here are a few ideas that I’ve come up with, to help break the ice at that awkward moment that occurs when a police officer taps on your window. If you play things right, you can turn an otherwise unpleasant experience into a worthwhile personal encounter, and have some harmless chuckles. And maybe a visit to the local Greybar Hotel.
Now, call me a psychic, or maybe a cynic, but I predict that the first thing the nice police officer will say will be something like, “May I see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?” I suggest you politely say, “Why certainly officer, I have them right here!” And then hand over the requested documents. It is extremely important at this point to be polite and cooperative, but say nothing else until the cop says something to you. This allows some tension to build, and gives more impact to your response to the next question, which is sure to be (all together now), "Do you know why I stopped you?” Here is where you get to have a little harmless fun at the officer’s expense. Pick the response that most closely matches your own personal situation, and have at it!
Cop: “Do you know why I stopped you?”
What to say if you are a/an:
Hot Chick: “Hoping to get lucky?”
Bakery Truck Driver: “Running low on doughnuts?”
Schizophrenic: “Yes I do. No I don’t!”
Musician: “No, but if you hum a few bars, I think I can pick it up.”
Secret Agent: “Yes. But if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
Ignoramus (Politically Correct version of “Retard”): “Uhh… I dunno.”
Apathetic Loser: “I don’t care.”
Off-Duty Police Officer: “Will you quit screwing around, Bob?”
Efficiency Expert: “No, but I have a check-list if that will help speed things along.”
Private Detective: “I haven’t got a clue.”
Clint Eastwood Fan: “Do you feel lucky, punk?”
Elvis Pressley fan: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!”
Comedian: “The same reason a dog licks his balls?”
Taxi Driver: “You’re lost, and you need directions to Dunkin’ Donuts?”
Lawyer: “Objection! Calls for speculation on facts not in evidence!”
Buddhist Monk: “You seek the path of true enlightenment?”
Priest: “You want an impromptu confession?”
Dog: “Same reason I lick my nuts?”
Black man: “Racial profiling?”
White man: “Beats me. I’m white!”
The look on the officer’s face should provide you with plenty of laughs, making the hours you spend waiting to make bail go by so much quicker!
Until we meet again...
(A version of this column first appeared in the July 24, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.')
Friday, September 7, 2007
Rico Suave Makes a Booty Call
Pay close attention, this story has a moral!
One night, a few months ago, I picked up four guys at a bar in Old Town Scottsdale. They all piled into the cab, and although I asked, they did not immediately tell me where they were going. It was about two in the A.M., but I could see that sleep was the last thing on their minds, except for one young man, who kept saying,
“I have to be up at nine forty-five in the morning!”
The others kept saying things to him like,
“Dude, come on over, we got more booze at home, and women are coming over!”
Sleepy Head finally acquiesced, so one of his buddies finally gave me a destination, telling me to go to the area of Thirty-Second Street, north of Camelback Road. On the way over there, while Sleepy Head is noticeably absent from the conversation, all I keep hearing is the other three guys talking about booze and women, women and booze. This is a scenario that I am somewhat familiar with, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s this: these guys will certainly have plenty of booze, but probably not enough women. If any.
Anyway, we get to their destination, and the three party animals start to pile out, going through the old “who has got what cash to pay the cabbie” act. You know what I mean. If you think about four friends at Denny’s when the check comes, but with far
“Come on, Dude, we got booze and women, women and booze!!”
But they can’t convince him to stay with them. He tells me to take him back to Hayden and Indian School, because he wants to go home. Great, I’m thinking, back-to-back fifteen dollar fares! I must be living right. Good times!
Now, just as soon as we get out of the sight of his friends, he’s on his cell phone, talking to some chick. He keeps saying things like,
"Come on baby, I’m in a cab, I’ll be right over!”
Finally she must have agreed to his little late night rendezvous, because I hear him ask her,
“Where do you live again?… Fifty-sixth Street and Camelback…
Now, we’re southbound on Thirty-Second Street, already past Camelback Road, but I
Now, along the way, he tells me that he’ll have to get the money for the cab ride from the girl that he’s going to see, and asks if I would mind waiting. Hell no, I don’t mind waiting, the meter’s gonna still be
“I guess I must look pretty pathetic. I mean, going over to some girl’s house, and having her pay for the cab ride.”
I disagree with him, partly to be polite, but mostly because I am beginning to think that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than his buddies, because while they’ve got booze and (maybe) women, he’s got a sure thing. Anyway, when we get there, he gets out, goes into the house, comes out a couple of minutes later, and hands me the fare and a pretty good tip. I thank him and say good night, and he turns and starts to walk away. Then he stops, turns around, and walks back to me. When he gets back to the car, he says once again,
“You must really think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”
I look at him for a moment. Then I look at the meter. Then I look at the money in my hand. Finally I look back at him. He’s got a huge shit-eating grin on his face. I start to grin. I say,
“Whatever you say sir. I thank you for your patronage. I hope you have a good night.”
Then I put the car in gear, and get on out of there.
Pathetic? More like a frickin’ genius, if you ask me. I mean, think about it: his buddies buy him drinks all night long; then, over his protests that he just wants to go home, they unwittingly get him to within two or three miles of his girlfriend’s house. As if that isn’t enough, they fall for his lame “I’ve got to get up early tomorrow” story, and let him leave. What they don’t know is that he’s just a phone call away from where the real action is. He then proceeds to set up a booty call, getting the booty to pay for the cab. His total investment for a night of fun and debauchery? About two dollars and change for the rubbers. Do you think he’s pathetic? Come on, this guy is the social-sexual equivalent of that travel book, “How To See Europe On Five Dollars A Day.” Pathetic my ass! Allow me to repeat myself: this guy is a frickin’ genius!
Now, I know all of the people who have just finished reading this story fall into three broad groups. Group One consists of people that realize that there is a moral to the story, and understand it. If you are a member of this group, you are excused from any further reading, as this column is over, as far as you are concerned. Give yourself an “A” for comprehension, but don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.
Group Two consists of people who don’t realize that there is a moral to this story, don’t care that there is a moral to this story, and certainly wouldn’t understand the moral to the story if it were explained to them in words of two syllables or less. If you are a member of this group, you, too, are excused from any further reading, because, for you, this column is likewise over. Give yourself an “A” for effort, but please, try not to drool so much next time we meet.
Group Three is for everyone who doesn’t fit into either Group One or Group Two. It consists of people who realize that the story has a moral, mostly because just prior to the beginning of the story I said there was a moral, and they remember reading that part. Another characteristic of the people in Group Three is that they don’t know the moral, but would like to know it, if for no other reason than to say that they are “in the loop.” It is to the people of Group Three that I aim my next comments. Please pay attention, you may learn something.
The moral of the story, “Rico Suave Makes a Booty Call” is this: “If your buddies buy you drinks all night long, and your girlfriend pays the cab fare for you to go over and bang her, it doesn’t matter what the cab driver thinks. His opinion doesn’t count. He got his. Now go get yours!” All you people in Group Three ought to thank your lucky stars that you have someone like your faithful Cab Guy to explain things to you
Until we meet again…
(A version of this post first appeared in the November 2, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.')
