Funny Run-In with Cops!

Funny Run-In with Cops   #smartass #funny #cops

So then…Carol and I exit the movies and agree that the Tex-Mex place across the street will be perfect for dinner and mojitos. But it’s a long block, so instead of travelling all the way to the crosswalk at the traffic signal, we just walk across the street when there’s a break in traffic.

And just then, a cop car sounds its alarm, flashes its lights, and pulls us over.

Pulls us over! We are walking.

But they pull us over to the side of the road anyway.

Can you imagine how humiliating it is to stand and wait on the curb while your pursuers navigate traffic to pull up alongside you?

The cop leans out the window and scolds us, “Why are you jaywalking? Don’t you know how many drunk drivers are out on a Saturday night!?”

Naturally, I quiver and mumble a contrite “I’m sorry.”

But Carol turns to the cop and says, “If there are so many drunk drivers out there tonight, why are you bothering with jaywalkers? Go arrest the drunk drivers!”

The cops look at each other — look at Carol’s annoyed expression and hands on her hips — look at each other again, then speed away into traffic.

And they didn’t even use their turn signal, I might add.

Carol 1; Cops 0.

— Darcy Perdu

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Our Hostess Turned Bright Red!

Our Hostess Turned Bright Red #funny #dinner #Thanksgiving

So then…he passes the sweet potatoes to me at the same time she slides the stuffing my way. I’m delighted to be deluged with delectable dishes. With my work schedule, I’m usually dining on take-out, so I’m thrilled to be invited to my friend’s neighbor’s house for a genuine home-cooked meal for Thanksgiving.

There are 12 of us around the dinner table – all in our 20’s and 30’s – and we all compliment our hosts Rachel and Steve for the outstanding cuisine. As the guests chatter away, I sip my wine and admire how lovely everything is – the candles, floral arrangements, linen tablecloths – it all seems so grown up! (My friends and I usually throw parties with plastic silverware and red Solo cups.) But this is a genuine dinner party where we’re sipping from crystal wine glasses and dining with actual silver silverware!

The weight of the utensils is impressive and the pattern is very elegant, so I say, “This is such a beautiful silver set.”

Rachel and Steve exchange a quick glance. Steve smiles, but Rachel grimaces. Steve opens his mouth to speak, but Rachel quickly cuts him off.

“Yes, thank you,” she says. “It was a wedding gift.”

“Oh, come on, Rachel, you have to tell the story,” says Steve.

Rachel shoots him a glare meant to silence him, but it only encourages him.

He turns to the rest of us and says softly, “Have you guys heard of the Silver Thief of Tarzana?”

One of the guests, Darren, says, “Yeah – isn’t that the guy who’s been stealing silver in this area for like, 15 years or so?”

Steve says enthusiastically, “Yes, exactly!”

Rachel sighs.

Darren’s wife Claire says, “Oh, that’s the guy they call the “gentlemen burglar” because he only steals when people aren’t home – so no one’s ever been hurt, right?”

Steve smiles. “Yep, that’s the guy. Sooooo, when Rachel and I went to Hawaii last summer—”

Claire says, “No way! The Silver Thief of Tarzana stole your silver?!!”

“Yes!” says Steve gleefully.

We’re surprised and start to murmur things like “Oh my God” and “how cool” and “that’s crazy!”

Darren says, “Dude! That’s awesome! You got ripped off by a famous burglar!” He smiles and lifts his wine glass in Steve’s direction. Steve grins and clinks glasses with him.

Someone asks, “Did he take anything else?”

“No,” answers Steve. “He left everything exactly as it was and stole only the sterling silver silverware.”

“That’s amazing,” someone says, plucking a roll from the basket.

“The cops told us that he actually hit several homes that same night – all in Tarzana.” Steve continues. “He got some silverware sets, candlesticks, a tray, a tea set – quite a haul.”

“Wow,” says one of the guests. “So did your insurance cover the loss so you could buy new silver?”

“Oh, no,” says Steve, clearly enjoying being the center of attention. He sips his wine. Rachel slugs hers back. “We didn’t file an insurance claim — because we got the silver back!”

We respond:
“What?”
“Really?”
“That’s incredible! So the cops caught him?”
“Or they found it at a pawn shop where he fenced it?”

Steve laughs. “Noooo. The police called us to say they found our silver…on the lawn of our neighbor down the street!

Now we’re flabbergasted:
“What?”
“Seriously?”
“Your neighbor is the Silver Thief of Tarzana?”

Steve beams for the big reveal. “Noooo. Our neighbor isn’t the Silver Thief – but his lawn is where the Silver Thief dumped our silver when he found out…it wasn’t REAL silver!

We’re shocked:
“What? Really?”
“It wasn’t real silver?”
“How did he know?”

Steve’s eyes dance merrily. “No, it wasn’t real silver! We thought it was.” He shoots a look at his wife. She gives him the fish eye.

He continues, “Some of us were very ‘impressed’ with someone’s Great Uncle Allen for sending us sterling silver for our wedding.” His wife’s eyes shoot laser beam death rays into his face, boring an imaginary heat hole into his forehead through to his brain.

He laughs and turns back to us. “Apparently, sterling silver has to be like 92% silver or higher. But silver PLATE is when they just put a thin layer of silver over a cheaper metal like copper or nickel. So our “silver” was really just copper with a thin silver layer!”

Claire asks, “Why do you think he tossed it in the neighbor’s yard?”

“The cops told us they think he hit all the houses quickly to get in and out undetected, then took time to inspect his haul later. Once he scraped our silver and saw the copper underneath – or used a test kit or whatever, he realized ours was just fake – and tossed it all out the car window into the yard down the street!”

A pause.

Darren says, “So you were rejected by the Silver Thief of Tarzana?” He puts a consoling hand on Steve’s shoulder and says sadly, “Oh, dude.”

Steve laughs. “I know, I know! Is that hilarious or what? First we’re feeling all violated – like ‘this guy broke into our house and stole our stuff!’ And then the cops tell us they found the stuff and we’re all excited, like ‘thank God we got our expensive silver back!’ Then we find out it’s because the thief threw our stuff away because it was fake – and we’re all indignant, like ‘what, our stuff isn’t good enough for you? — you snobby little crook!’

We’re all laughing at his imitations. Well, everyone except his wife.

But then it hits me. There’s a forkful of stuffing en route to my mouth, when I stop suddenly and hold the utensil aloft. “Wait, so if you got the silver back – is this THAT silver?”

“Yeah,” says Steve nodding.

I wrinkle my nose and stare at my fork. “So we’re eating off of the rejected, fake silver that was thrown into someone’s dirty yard?”

Everyone pauses, mid-eating.

Rachel blurts, “Well, I washed it, for God’s sake!”

We all put our utensils down. Our faces display varying degrees of uncertainty, distaste, or disgust.

Rachel is horrified. She looks at Steve murderously. She is ready to stab him in the heart with her dull rejected fake silver butter knife.

We all burst out laughing! We continue eating immediately to show her that we’re only joking with her.

I raise my glass to toast, “To the infamous non-silver silver of Steve and Rachel!”

“Here, here!  To Steve and Rachel!”
“And Great Uncle Allen!”
“And the Silver Thief of Tarzana!”
“Cheers!”

— Darcy Perdu

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Crisis Conspiracy in a Dim-Lit Restaurant

Dangerously Funny Date

So then…the server drops off our drinks and hands us the most impossibly long menus I’ve ever seen. Each menu is one extremely tall sheet made of beautiful parchment paper and printed with an elaborate typestyle, bordering on calligraphy.

I’m only 26 so my eyesight is still good – but even I’m having trouble reading the ornamental curlicues on the script, especially since this swanky Manhattan restaurant is darkly romantic — lit mostly with candles.

My date excuses himself to the men’s room, so I sneak a quick glance over to the large mirror in the bar. I’ve dressed up for our date and I must say, I’m looking pretty damn good. This sentiment seems to be shared by the two guys talking at the bar since they both look in my direction and smile.

I smile back demurely, but quickly return my attention back to the nearly illegible menu – after all, I’m already on a date. I hunch over the menu, leaning closer and closer, trying to read the ornate descriptions of Italian dishes in this dim lighting.

In my peripheral vision, I see the two guys at the bar staring at me. Inside, I’m all: Really guys — cool your jets. Didn’t you see I’m with someone?

Now they’re smiling and motioning to me and pointing. Are they asking me over for a drink? Oh, stop, I think. Really – I simply couldn’t! I’m blushing from all the attention.

I shoot a mock scolding look at them and return to my menu – which is on fire.

Yes, on fire.

I’ve leaned so close to the table’s candle, trying to read the damn thing, I have now set it on fire!

The flames are flying – the blaze burning briskly to the bottom of the parchment — ashes fall to the table – everyone whips around to see the spectacle — but I’m afraid to drop it and start a bigger fire — so I just hold it, in shock.

The server swoops over, grabs the bottom of the menu and dunks it into the wine bucket of the table next to me. Instantly a bus boy races over and removes the glasses, silverware, candle, and tablecloth. He whips out a fresh white linen tablecloth, resets the table, returns the drinks and hustles away. Meanwhile the server swiftly replaces the wine bucket of the table next to me – then zips back to delicately place a fresh new menu in my hand.

I swear to you, this all takes 60 seconds. They move with such effortless grace and quick thinking, I can only imagine that this sort of thing must happen frequently at this dark-romantic-illegible-menu restaurant.

No sooner does the server sail away than my date rounds the corner and rejoins me at the table. He is none the wiser. All evidence of my near-calamity has been eradicated. I look exactly as he left me – except my heart is hammering wildly.

I shoot a look of relief at my would-be admirers at the bar, who I suppose were really would-be rescuers all along. They smile and give me a thumbs up.

The other diners who were momentarily alarmed all return to their dinners.

When the server gently places the bread basket on the table and winks at me, I realize that the entire restaurant has unanimously decided to join a conspiracy of silence so my date never learns that I almost burnt the place down while he was taking a piss.

But of COURSE I tell him – because how could I not!? Oh, the drama! Lives were almost lost while I tried to distinguish between the tagliatelle and the tortellini!

— Darcy Perdu

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Mister, Please! Do NOT Put That in Your Mouth!

Mister, Please, Do NOT Put That in Your Mouth! #funny #shocking #embarrassing

So then…the doorbell rings and I freeze. He’s here. The exterminator — the pest control guy — the man who will either give me the “all clear” – or notify me that my home is infested with rodents, which will FREAK ME THE HELL OUT.

I open the door and start babbling before he can even introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m Darcy. Thanks for coming on short notice. Come in, come in. The kitchen’s right through here. I’m terrified of mice and rats and I’m in a panic that we may have them. We moved in recently and I don’t know, there are big palm trees out there with these dead bushy leaves coming down – and someone told me rats LIVE in those leaves, but now I think they’re coming into my house—” My voice goes up in a high-pitched note of hysteria.

The burly pest control guy in his dark green uniform asks, “Where do you think you have mice?”

I open the kitchen cabinet and make a disgusted face. I whisper, “I found mice poop IN my kitchen cabinet!!” I want to gag just thinking about how long mice have been skittering over the dishes and plates that WE EAT OFF OF!! (I’m so upset, I don’t even care that I ended my sentence with a preposition!)

The exterminator looks at the little brown mice poop pellets, then looks around the cabinets a bit. I’m standing to his side, ready to bolt the instant a furry little creature rears his hideous little head.

The pest control guy leans over the little poop pellets, sniffs, then puts his finger on a couple of them and PUTS THEM IN HIS MOUTH.

I repeat, HE PUTS THEM IN HIS MOUTH.

I am stunned. What kind of weirdo freaky exterminator is this? Who have I invited into my home? Maybe he just poses as an exterminator so he can eat mice feces! He will probably kill me now and boil my head for dinner!

“What are you doing?” I sputter.

“You don’t have mice,” he says, pointing to the poop pellets. “You have chocolate sprinkles.”

Oh, Good Lord.

I look closer. He’s right.

I had made cupcakes a while ago with chocolate sprinkles, but all the baking supplies are in the pantry. I don’t know how some of the sprinkles got into the dishes cabinet – but I’ve never been so happy to see a baking condiment in my life!

“So no mice?” I ask with unbridled joy.

“No mice,” he confirms.

I could have kissed him!

But I didn’t.

Because all I can think is — are there some houses where he tries that little test – and it’s not chocolate sprinkles?

— Darcy Perdu

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(Any interactions with strange service people? Ever embarrassed in front of a repairman or technician? Any good stories about critters? Do tell!)