Zander writes: It was a Saturday night and things were going so dandy and sweet that I had almost thought I was living in a Stevie Wonder song. Some pals and I had attended a beer and music festival, and it was the best of times. As our angelic designated driver navigated us home, lights of red and blue flashed violently in our rearview. Pulling over, we were approached by an officer of the law. His voice thundered with arrogance as he said cop things to us in that snidely accusing way. He couldn’t stand to swallow the fact that we were doing nothing wrong, and radioed for some colleagues to join him. We were all forced to take a seat on a damp curb for some interrogation and belittlement. Eventually, the boys in uniform determined our driver was in fact sober and that our car miraculously wasn’t harboring drugs. For heaven’s sake, they couldn’t even find the gun that they had mistaken my girlfriend’s cell phone to be. It was a 90-minute process and it left our dignities torn apart like the interior of the car after their quest for illegalities. Our spirit was broken. Our Saturday night was tarnished.
Why would I ramble on about a cop whose narcissistic zeal shone brighter than his badge? On Tuesdays past, I’ve compared Bede Durbridge’s surfing to a leprechaun on ketamine, related wave pools to Mexican prostitutes, and surmised that the Queen of England has been thwacked in the face by Michael Phelps’s penis. But talking about police officers? Why? Because the ocean has a police and they are called locals. Riddle it for a moment.