When Your Own MOM is Tougher than the COPS!

When Your Own MOM is Tougher than the COPS!  Would you do this to your kid?  #funny SoThenStories.com

So then…I finish my shift and drive home. Yeah, that’s right – I’ve got a job – and I’m only a TEENAGER. Yep. (trying to act casual, but super stoked!)

(I’d been so nervous during my interview at Grandell’s Amusement Park, but honestly – how could they resist my professional interview outfit: pastel teal polyester pants with a striped collared shirt – and get this, one of the stripes was the exact same shade as the pastel teal pants! No, seriously. I like to think it’s that kind of meticulous attention to detail that impressed them to hire me immediately.)

All summer, my teen coworkers toil outside in the broiling Louisiana sun, running the carnival games and operating the rides.

But I serve chili-cheese-dogs in an old-timey train caboose – the ONLY air-conditioned spot in the entire amusement park!

The teen boys who work here are always hanging around my caboose – (the TRAIN caboose – git yer mind outta the gutter!) – and I’m fairly certain their constant presence is a testament to my charming personality – OR the air-conditioning. Whatevs. Potato Po-tah-to.

Anyway, I’m happily singing along to my car radio as I turn the corner and pull up outside my house. I park on the street, wave to my Dad in the backyard, then stroll up the sidewalk to our front door.

I’m halfway there when I hear a man’s voice behind me say, “Excuse me.”

Someone must need directions. I turn around, saying, “Yes, can I help y—”

There is a cop. Standing in front of his cop car.

This cop needs directions from me? That’s weird. It’s usually the other way around.

“Do you know why I’m here?” he asks.

Oh dear, this cop is having a really bad day. He doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing.

“No,” I say gently, wondering how I can contact his sergeant to return him safely to the precinct.

“I’m here because you blew through two stop signs right in front of me.”

Oh.

Oh, I see.

Suddenly the whole picture becomes painfully clear to me.

“Well, I’m not sure I’d say “blew” through them, maybe I “stop-rolled” through them?”

His expression indicates he’s not interested in parsing semantics with me.

“I can’t believe you ran a second stop sign right in front of me while I was following you for the first one. Didn’t you see me in your rear-view mirror?” he asks, pulling out his ticket book.

I furrow my brow. Does he mean the make-up mirror? That thing in the middle of the windshield I use to apply thick coats of Maybelline mascara?

“Well, why didn’t you have your sirens on?” I ask. “I would’ve noticed you then.”

He looks flummoxed, like he can’t believe I’m trying to turn this around on him being at fault.

Just then my mom comes tearing out of the front door.

“Oh my God, Darcy! What have you done now?”

(What have I done “now?” Good God, she makes it sound like I’m a regular juvenile delinquent!)

I say ruefully, “Narcotics again, Mom.”

Mom is NOT amused.

“DARCY! Don’t you dare joke about this, young lady!”

She turns to the cop and says, “What did she do?”

He says, “She failed to come to a complete stop so I – wait, is that you, Meredith? It’s me, Tommy – Tommy Renaldi.”

She takes a couple steps closer and recognizes the young cop. Mom works as Deputy Clerk of Court so she knows most of the cops who come in and out of the courthouse.

“Oh, hey Tommy. I mean, Officer Renaldi,” she says quickly, trying to highlight his authority for my sake.

“Meredith, I didn’t know this was your daughter.” He closes his ticket book. “No need for a citation. I’ll just let it go with a warn—”

“No!” she says vehemently. “No daughter of mine’s getting a free pass just because I work at the courthouse! She commits a crime, she pays the consequences! You throw the book at her!”

“Aww, Mommmm,” I say plaintively.

“Aww, Mommmm,” the cop echoes in solidarity. He grins at her optimistically.

She shoots us both a look that smacks the smiles right off our faces and the hope out of our hearts.

She points a finger at me and says, “When you’re finished here, come inside for a ‘talk.’”

And with that, she spins on her heel and strides back into the house.

The cop looks at me with sympathy – and a fearful shudder.

“Oh, man,” he says, “That’s gonna be some talk.” He writes in his book. “Here, I’m just gonna cite you for the one stop sign – so at least it’s $50 instead of $100.”

I’m appreciative – but dammit, do you know how many chili-cheese-dogs I gotta sell to clear $50 bucks?

I mumble “thank you” as I mournfully take the ticket.

As I trudge back up the sidewalk to my front door, I can only imagine him thinking, “Dead Man Walking…”

Note 1 – MY MOM:
First, I need to tell you that my Mom is actually one of the warmest, funniest, most compassionate people you’ll ever meet. Quick to offer a lending hand, a sympathetic ear, a strong shoulder to lean on – she is literally my role model for motherhood! But damnation, if you try to slide something by that woman — and she thinks you need to learn your lesson – well, by God, you.will.learn.that.lesson! Another reason she’s a great Mom!

Note 2 – MY DAD:
Second, I find it absolutely hilarious that my Dad simply waved at me from the backyard. I mean, his teenage daughter pulls up, followed by a cop car, but he just waves and goes about his business! To be fair, he was working on the “Yellow Cracker Box.” This was our affectionate name for the bizarre box-shaped yellow rehabilitation vehicle he bought used, then retrofitted it to include a table, bathroom, and pull-out beds so our family of 7 could go on camping trips and road trips all across the South. He was quite fond of that Yellow Cracker Box, so he may have been distracted by whatever he was tinkering with or fixing.

I like to think he just assumed, “Oh, that Darcy’s a clever one – if the cops are after her, I’m sure she’ll figure a way out of it.” Of course, more than likely, he probably just figured my Mom’s “Spidey Sense” would alert her that one of the 5 kids was in legal trouble – and that she’d rush to ensure the kid was prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Note 3 – MY NEXT COP:
Fortunately my next summer job provided me with a hilarious way to get out of speeding tickets as this true tale will attest: Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket. 

Note 4 – MY NEXT CRIME:
Recently my Book Club read The Husband’s Secret by Liane Moriarty (great book BTW) about a wife’s dilemma when she learns her loving husband of about 15 years and terrific father to her kids actually secretly killed a girl when he was a teen. Should she turn him in or not?

When I asked my Book Club friends if they’d turn in their husbands in a similar situation, most said they’d keep the secret! But you can clearly see that if I pulled something like that, my MOM would not only CALL THE COPS on me — she’d swab my DNA, track down the buried body, and gather all the damning evidence into a compelling PowerPoint for the judge and jury!

Note to self: do NOT invite Mom to help dispose of any bodies. My Dad, on the other hand, would’ve pulled up in the Yellow Cracker Box, tossed the body inside, and headed to the desert with a shovel. Which kind of parent are YOU?

— Darcy Perdu

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(How would your parents react if you showed up at your house with the cops? What would you do if it were YOUR teen – let the cop issue a warning – or insist on a ticket? Any funny cop stories?)

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket

So then…I wince and mutter some expletives, as the sirens wail and the lights flash.

I pull over. Busted for speeding.

Dammit, I’m going to be late for work at the airport.

Yes, I work at the airport – as a security guard.

A skinny, curly-haired 19-year-old girl as a security guard?

Yep, that’s me. (I keep telling them I’d appear more menacing if they let me pack heat – but so far, no go.)

It’s a pretty decent job for a college kid home for the summer — but I don’t make enough coin to cover a hefty speeding ticket.

I rustle around in the glove compartment for the registration. The cop car is parked behind me, no doubt running my plates.

I’m squeaky clean, otherwise I wouldn’t have passed the background check at Burke Security, the firm that provides security guards for our little Louisiana airport.

How little? We have two gates. Only one has an xray machine.

So that means those of us at the non-xray gate have to check the passengers’ carry-on bags BY HAND.

While the passengers are standing there.

Watching us.

This can make for some very uncomfortable moments.

We’re rifling through their personal items, unmentionables, and wish-I-hadn’t-seen-its.

And they’re standing there witnessing this invasion of privacy.

Many times I’ve wanted to cock my head, raise a brow, point to the carry-on and say, “Really? Really?”

The Slim Fast Bar surrounded by a dozen Snickers and Butterfingers.

The business reports interspersed with girlie magazines.

The week’s worth of laundry so filthy, it’s practically writhing.

And don’t get me started on the questionable wardrobe choices. “Oh, honey, you cannot pull off this peach pantsuit.”

In our searches, we haven’t encountered much in the way of weaponry.

But I’m not sure if that’s because our 2-gate airport isn’t much of a terrorist hub – or if it’s because we guards lack the enthusiasm to thoroughly search people’s possessions BY HAND.

If the incendiary devices aren’t in plain view on the top layer of the bag, it’s likely they’re going right through to the plane.

If I so much as SEE someone’s tighty-whities, they’ve got a free pass!

I.am.not.touching.your.underwear.

So far this summer, the only things we’ve confiscated from passengers are several bags of weed — and in one case, a harpoon.

Interestingly, there was no other scuba or fishing equipment in the bag. Just normal stuff and a big-ass harpoon. Our seizure of the instrument was met with some objection.

Harpoon Guy: “You don’t understand. (twitchy, with wild eyes) I NEED this harpoon.”

Oh, no, Harpoon Guy – I think we understand perfectly.

The car door slams behind me. The cop is making his way over to my car.

Maybe he’ll let me go when he understands how critical I am to the safety and well-being of America’s aviation industry. I’m saving pilots from surprise harpoon attacks!

I glance in the side view mirror to assess my challenger.

He looks like a good ole boy. A strict no-nonsense Southern cop.

CopStunnedbyMyResponseNoBackground 350

What ploy will work best to weasel out of this ticket?

Shall I feign innocence?

Flirt a bit?

Weep uncontrollably?

Hmmm. I hop out of the car, to best display my navy blue dacron-polyester Burke Security uniform with the light blue piping.

The cop says sternly, “You know you were speeding, right?”

I say, “Yes, but surely you wouldn’t give a ticket to a fellow officer.”

Silence.

He squints at my uniform with the sewn-on “badge” showing the Burke Security logo.

And then he laughs.

A but-gusting, holy-hell-this-is-HILARIOUS laugh.

And he cannot STOP laughing. He is practically CHOKING, he is laughing so hard.

“Fellow officer?” he sputters.

“Yes, I mean – as a professional courtesy between law enforcers – ” I say seriously, spreading my hands.

He busts up laughing again.

The sight of this scrawny little girl in a cheap rent-a-cop security uniform trying to procure professional privilege SLAYS him.

Between guffaws, he says, “OK, OK, you got me. I can’t ticket you. Off you go. And slow it down, Officer.” He shakes his head, still chuckling, on his way back to his car.

Hot damn and hallelujah!

I vow to keep a spare uniform in my car for any future cop encounters.

— Darcy Perdu

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P.S. No passengers were harmed in the making of my summer job. We weren’t the most diligent baggage searchers, but none of our flights encountered any difficulty. It was many years ago, before people got all crazy, trying to hide combustibles in their shoes & lotions & potions. If I were a security guard now, I’d strip search everybody. But I’d only work at private jet airports frequented by Ryan Gosling and Thunder from Down Under Dancers.

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket - Burke Security with Darcy Face

Yeah, boy – rockin’ my bell bottom security pants!

(Any inventive ways YOU’VE escaped a ticket? Or funny cop encounters? How about an odd summer job or interesting job from your youth?)

Funniest Way to Get Out of a Ticket #cop #speeding #police #car #funny #airplane  #pilot

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