Vail Valley police reports: Chronicles of the used car cat fight
NOTE: Every few days we peruse local law enforcement reports to help you feel better about yourself for two very good reasons: One, you’re probably not in here, and, two, you didn’t do anything this silly today.
Booty bustin’ brawl
When you’re “acting like an ass,” that’s what gets whipped. By the time law enforcement officials arrived at the bar, Booty Busted Boy was already bleeding and had been “detained” by a group of guys who were a cross between the Guardian Angels and a lynch mob. The thing about alcohol and most narcotics is that it enhances your personality. That’s fine if you’re Father Flanagan or Mother Theresa. But it’s a problem if you’re a jerk.
“He was acting like an ass,” one of the Angels said.
So, Booty Busted Boy was bounced from the bar, but took his ouster in poor form, pounding on the outside of the windows and shouting colorful metaphors at the patrons remaining inside, asserting that their matronage included female canines, and suggesting that they perform reproductive impossibilities on themselves.
Well, the Angels were having none of that, so a few of them decided that, as God’s creatures they’d step outside and explain to Booty Busted Boy the error of his ways. It turns out that Booty Busted Boy considered himself error free – a viewpoint often embraced when one is looking at a situation through the skewed perspective of beer goggles.
To improve his perspective, and to help Booty Busted Boy see that he could not be more wrong if he’d entered a poodle in a tractor pull, one of the Angels smacked him upside the head with a pool cue in an effort to clear his thinking and free him from his beer goggle vision.
The traditional Pool Cue Behavior Modification Technique is apparently against the law, which is what happens when sissy liberals start passing laws. So, the police rounded up a couple of our Angels, then threw Booty Busted Boy in with them and hauled them all to the Eagle County Crossbar Hotel.
The beatin’ goes on
The Friday Night Trifecta rides again – youth, testosterone and beer. Add a fair lass to the mix and it’s bound to end in fisticuffs, as this one did. It’s no mystery how Boyfriend ended up on the floor in a bunch of his own blood, although not in a life-threatening way. Girlfriend’s Guy Friend put him there. Girlfriend’s Guy Friend and Boyfriend were drinking beer on the couch when Girlfriend decided she’d had enough of their level of conversation and left the room. However, she apparently left enough estrogen in her wake to attract the attention of both young men. The young men noticed the estrogen, noticed each other and began exchanging all sorts of things – overhand punches foremost among them. Girlfriend’s Guy Friend was apparently quicker on the draw. By the time police arrived, Boyfriend had been smacked around like a Democratic pollster at a Red State revival meeting. He couldn’t remember his attacker’s name, where he lives and why he was administering etiquette lessons by boxing Boyfriend’s ears. Police left with the admonition that if anyone remembers anything, they should call immediately. So far, no information has been forthcoming.
The Dingbat Dozen
It’s a monumentally bad idea to ride around town on a dirt bike with no license plate, especially if your drivers license has been revoked and you have nine additional restraints – silly-headed stuff that attracted the attention of local law enforcement officials. It’s an especially bad idea if you’ve been drinking most of the night and are trying to ride home, or wherever you plan to sleep it off.
And it does absolutely no good to insist to the police officer that you’re having trouble walking a straight line in the roadside sobriety tests because you’re wearing your knee-high dirt bike boots. You will not help your situation by copping attitude with the cops about when you were drinking, and how much, and that they can cram that breathalyzer into an orifice that would preclude it from every giving an accurate reading ever again, ever – if you know what we mean, and we think you do.
Police officers may not be experts in every aspect of human endeavor, but they can count. They counted that one revocation plus nine restraints equals 10. Those 10 plus the DUI and the habitual offender makes this guy an even Dingbat Dozen.
Dingbat Dozen’s dad came over and picked up the motorcycle. There’s no word whether he bailed out Dingbat Dozen, as he had Dingbat Dozen’s dirt bike.
Used car cat fight
Nice Policeman just wanted to know who stole the license plates from the car and where they were now.
He did not need accuse Sultry Siren of stealing them, although Used Car Queen did.
Sultry Siren was mightily offended. “The only reason she’s accusing me is because she’s sleeping with my husband when I’m not home,” Sultry said.
Nice Policeman took note that Sultry Siren’s jeans appeared to be spray painted on, and moved like a burlap bag full of bobcats when she walked across the grass. But because he is a single-minded and dedicated law enforcement officer, he did not let that distract him as it might a lesser mortal.
Sultry Siren did not steal them, she said, but in the course of conversation let it be known that she had a warrant for her arrest, possibly for wearing stretch Lycra in such a way that it performed acts that violated its warranty.
“You can search me,” Sultry Siren said, insisting that she did not have the pilfered plates. She added that if he wanted, he could arrest her anyway, even though the pilfered plates were not on or about her person.
Nice Policeman, noticing that there was nowhere to hide license plates under clothes so tight you could read the raised lettering on the laundry instructions, decided he’d haul Sultry Siren in for whatever warrant was outstanding, and in her case it must have been an outstanding warrant, not just your average warrant.
In the immortal words of the great Mick Jagger, “You don’t always get what you want.” Nice Policeman never did find out what happened to those license plates.