Boy, young Jesse
MacB***h MacBeth sure opened hisself a can of worms, didn’t he?
It’s nice to see a poser getting what he deserve, but let us not forget that there are others just like him still running around out there like:
1) Micah Wright — who also claimed to be a Ranger/inflicting atrocities on Iraqi civilians despite the fact that the closest he ever came to military service was not making it all the way through ROTC.
2) Jimmy Massey, who was actually in the military, and whose sorry-arsed claim to fame is hanging onto Cindy Sheehan’s apron strings and slandering the U.S. military by telling bloody stories of atrocities commited or witnessed– despite the fact that his unit had no less than three embedded civilian reporters (one a cameraman) who neither saw, nor took pictures of any atrocities.
As I have mentioned previously, we run across these idiots on a weekly basis in Law Enforcement. And that was before the current dust-up started. Now, with the public emphasis on the military, I’m afraid that we’ll see more-and-more of the little bastards coming out of the woodwork.
Coupla years ago I’m swinging through Central Booking, and I notice Reno — good friend of mine, and my usual wingman — leaning on the wall and laughing his butt off.
Across from him is our main holding tank, and in it, hanging onto the bars like a sloth, is an older gentleman who looks like he’s about to cry.
I kind of pause, and Reno sees me, points at the gentleman in the tank and says: “Tell him what you just told me!”
The gentleman, who is hanging onto the bars with great desperation, legs trailing piteously behind him, declares, “I’m a veteran! You can’t treat me this way! I served in Vietnam in the Air Force Rangers!”
Reno dissolves into hysterics.
For those of you who maybe aren’t quite up to speed on various military units, or the current Poser de Jour, the Rangers are an Army outfit. I feel one of my eyebrows kind of slide up, and I say, gently, “Are you sure you weren’t Army, rather than Air Force?”
This is apparently an insult too great to be borne, as the gentleman (still clinging to the bars) yelps, “You can’t treat a veteran this way! I’ll have you know, it’s a Capital Offense to make fun of a U.S. veteran.”
I feel my other eyebrow slide up. I look at Reno, who is wiping tears, and I say, somewhat incredulously: “Capital offense? You mean, I can get the death penalty for making fun of a veteran?”
“Yes!” thunders the gentleman in holding, “Title 17, US Code makes it a Capital Federal Offense to make fun of a veteran.”
Reno practically collapses. He’s laughing so hard, I’m starting to get worried. And something sounds vaguely … familiar … about Title 17. Almost like …
It between gusts of laughter, Reno gasps, “If we rent him … and then charge people money to see him … the Fibbies are gonna bust us!”
That’s where I’ve heard Title 17 before. I turn to the gentleman in the front tank and gently say, “If you’re going to threaten us, don’t use the legal fine print at the front of a rental movie to do so. And why the hell are you hanging off the bars like that?”
“I’m crippled, you dumb ****!” shrieks the gentleman, “I got hit by an RPG at Dien Bien Phu! I CAN’T WALK!”
“That’s funny,” I respond, “I didn’t realize the French Foreign Legion had an Air Force, much less Rangers in it.”
“You’re making fun of me,” shrieketh the critter, “That’s a Capital Offense!”
“Only if we charge people money to watch us do it, apparently” I answered, absent-mindedly, “Reno, what is the goofball here for?”
“Evading!” whoops my buddy, “He led PD on a six block foot-chase and then kicked out a cruiser window!”
“You’re still making fun of me! That’s a Capital Offense!”
Of course, not only do we get the military posers, we get the DEA wanabis. I have lost count of the number of critters who have informed me that they are actually on a secret DEA mission, and that I really need to turn them loose before I get into trouble.
Really early one morning I pulled over a car that had crossed the double yellow line one his way through town.
I figured — given the hour — that the driver was probably just sleepy, so I pulled him over so that I could sharpen his awareness some, and to point him in the general direction of a coffeepot.
He was somewhat nervous when I walked up to the window, but I chalked that one up to having been pulled over. I explained who I was, informed him that I had pulled him over for crossing the double yellow lines in the middle of town, and asked if he had any emergfencies that I needed to know about.
He stuttered some, and I let him simmer a bit before asking for his license and registration. He dug them out, I went back to the cruiser, ran the DL, sat there for a bit, then walked back up to his window and asked him if he wsa awake now.
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Good, good,” sayeth I, “There are several convenience…”
He interrupted, “I’m undercover with the DEA, so you can’t ask to search the car.”
I blinked for a moment. Looked down the highway. No other cars to be seen. Looked the other way. Still the only two cars in sight.
I look at the driver. “What?”
He shoots me a sideways glance, clinging to the steering wheel like a baby clinging to it’s mama, “I’m an undercover informant on a Federal case. This is out of your league. You can’t search the car. Besides, the dope isn’t mine, it belongs to the Feds. You can’t interfere with a DEA investigation.”
I look at him for a while, say, “Don’t go anywhere” and amble back to my cruiser.
“Car 14, Dispatch.”
“I’m going to guess that you don’t have any outraged Fed types on the phone or teletype right now.”
“Are there any phone calls or teletypes I need to know about?”
“Ms. Frickert reported the newspaper boy for pulling into her driveway, again.”
“Ah. Anything else?”
“Santa Claus really, really likes me. Send a wrecker to my location, please.”
It’s the little things.