Do you want to party with me?

I got my drinking shirt on, my hair's looking good, I'm feeling good, I mean, c'mon, let's get this thing on.

My current incarceration -- a momentary pitstop. A bald dude in a Jager shirt does not muck about. After my solicitor has been dispatched and my bail posted, I shall return to the bar, wherein I was originally 'pinched' and resume my consumption of tasty beverages.

First rounds on me! Per chance I will get change for the jukebox. I'm feeling some Loverboy or REO Speedwagon coming on.

Huh... wha?

Where am I and what is that smell? Is that me? It's like BO and the scent of fresh cat shit had a baby. And it died.

Perhaps my bi-annual beard washing should be upped to tri-annual.

And no, I'm not Sib Hashian. Or Rob Tyner. Stop asking for autographs.

Please scratch my head. I've got an itch something fierce. Or take off my handcuffs and let me do it. Okay, so you're not going to remove my restrains. That's probably a good idea, since I've got a fresh BM in my pants and I'm ready and willing to hurl it at you like I'm a crazy, circus monkey.

So if you do scratch me, you might want to put gloves on. I've been known to chigger-up in the summer months.

As soon as I get out of here, I've got a twenty-four ounce Budweiser & Clamato Chelada chilling in a dumpster behind the supermarket with my name on it. You should try it. After test-marketing it in Arizona, Bud has widened distribution to include California and Texas. And you know, after a hard day of rummaging through trash cans, yelling unintelligible gibberish at tourists, and standing by the highway off-ramp with a "Will Work For Drunk" sign, a gentleman can find true relaxation in a cold, beer and clam-juice cocktail.

Beats drinking anti-freeze like in the old college days.

What, me worry?

Yeah, I got arrested. So what? Do I look like I'm vexed?

Do you think this is my first time at the rodeo? Negative. Getting arrested is a quarterly event for me. Like my taxes.

And spending a night in a holding cell -- do you wonder if it frightens me? Not. At. All. Just take one deep, ponderous look into my white supremacist face. Put me in, coach. I've got enough hate to get me through an evening with any race you can throw at me.

Just tell me why am I here? So I was standing outside a town-hall meeting with an 'Obama is Hitler' homemade poster. (I just got Photoshop 8!) Any maybe I screamed a few racially sensitive about our 'alleged' commander-in-chief. (Let's see that damned birth certificate, right?) A few off-color remarks about the president and his 'ilk' taking, er, stealing the country from us and the next thing I know, I'm getting my handsome mug photographed by John Law. He and Rahm Emanuel should go back to Kenya!

But I'm not worried. White people have faced this kind of adversity before.

Now I need to see a doc about a pre-existing condition -- you get free health care in prison, you know.

Sunblock is for pussies

Here I was, sitting out in the back of the truck, ten deep into a twelve'r of 'Natty Lite, blasting Brooks & Dunn, minding my own business, when a lady-cop asked me to take off my sunglasses. She looked deep into my eyes -- told me I looked intoxicated. Windows into the soul or something.

This is 'Merica! I'm a taxpayer. It's my G-d-given right to sit in my F-250, put in a cassette of some country music, and drink myself into oblivion. If it ain't in the constitution, it outta be.

I work hard all week. (I manufacture those plastic balls that hang from the back of a truck hitch.) If I wanna get my drink on and soak up the hot Florida sun on my day off, that's my prerogative.

I was looking a little fair, so no, I didn't put on the Coppertone spf 5 I keep in the glovebox for when it's really sunny. And now I've got that 'bedroom glow' I was lookin' for. When I post bail and git outta here, I'm goin' over to the Pink Pussycat and see if I can git me some.


Wanna a mustache ride? You got it. Just be gentle, the face is sensitive right now. You have any bactine?

Hi there! Good to see you!

Hiya, schnookems! Snap that photo and let's get this road on the show! Ha!

Why am I so happy? Two words: Why not?

The sky is clear, the air is crisp, I'm currently being arrested and yes, I have a big 'ole smile on my mug. I call it "Smile Power." You should try it, too, officer. You, with your gruff, mustache-laden frown. If you smile, the whole world smiles with you.

Or it could be the massive amount of crystal meth I took three days ago. My stars, it really lasts and lasts. And what happened to my shirt? And pants? I don't remember having these tattoos earlier this week. Hmmm. You have some 'splainin' to do!'


Toodle-oo!

White Devils!

Do you know who I am? Seriously, I live here. I own this peace, bitch. This is my house. That I own. And yet you're here, arresting me.

This is Cambridge, not Boston. We got MIT, Harvard, The Coop, T.T. The Bears, hell we got more used bookstores than anywhere in the world. I can understand being a racist cop over in Boston. I can see it -- growing in Southie, hating the blacks living just below you in Roxbury, joining the force to help channel your building rage, beat up a few innocent black teenagers so you won't hit the wife -- I get it. But, bitches, we're on the other side of the Charles River! Cambridge cops eat falafel. They donate to NPR. Cambridge cops write poetry.

I bet this shit doesn't happen to other 'rock star' professors teaching over here in the greater Boston area. I mean, you don't hear that Elie Wiesel got pinched for shoplifting. Noam Chomsky isn't pulled over for a 'broken tail light' and beaten about the face and neck with a club. Spike Lee isn't... well, he's a bad example. He's probably takes an exorbitant amount of shit from the cops. Hell, I've even slapped that tiny bitch outside the JFK school of government for torturing me with "Girl 6", but that's not the point.

But just look at me. I teach at Harvard. University. I ain't no shitbird associate professor teaching those cro-mag hockey-scholarships at Boston College or Northeastern. Bitch, I teach in the big leagues. It don't get more crunk than Harvard. And I got cred. I was listed in Time magazine's "25 most influential people" in 1997. (Though Don Imus was listed as well.) I do not break into people's houses, let alone mine.

But you, a Cambridge cop, saw me and thought -- here's a mid-50s professorial-type with a polo shirt and tiny glasses and he is forcing a door down so he can get inside, steal everything in sight... so he can buy crack and the latest Doris Kearns Goodwin treatise on Lincoln. Shit, beatch, get transferred to over to the Boston police, where you belong, you racist pig.

Now where's my phone call? You know I'm callin' Obama, cracker! Your ass is gonna be transferred to Mattapan.

Tears of a Clown

How could this happen to me? To ME?

Here I am, tears welling up in my eyes, arrested... and for what? How did I get here?

Well, my neatly shaved head might give the impression that I'm a military man. But the five days of beard growth on my chin suggests that I'm never far from a cold beer and a Camel Light and perhaps some WWE. Sure, I look a little sketchy and am definitely not a dude you want to be trapped in an elevator with, but c'mon, give a guy a break.

How was I supposed to know that whore was an undercover cop. She had all the trappings of a lady of the night: frosted, pink lips; a powerful rack; six inch clear heels; a thin veneer of desperation. I was drawn to her...something about the way she smacked her cheap gum and looked me up and down with her powder-blue lidded eyed. At no point did I think -- "Hey, let's ask her if she's a cop. I know it's not really entrapment if she says no, but it can't hurt, right?" No, I went for it. "How much to get a nob job? I know where an ATM is right around the corner." Oh, her salty disposition turned right then and there. A smile crossed her lips, she spat out her flavor deprived gum, and smacked those handcuffs on me; done with such glee and merriment, as if she couldn't wait to scream those terrible words: "You're under arrest."

Now how did I get here? I had such promise at one point in my life. A top learner at my parochial school, I was told by the nuns that I could do anything with my life, just as long as I applied myself and stopped masturbating. I had two good, loving parents, an older brother acting as a guide and a sage as to how to negotiate the road of life, and healthy head of hair: I should have had it all. And yet I find myself weeping like a girl, as they snap my arrest photo.

Perhaps it's society to blame. If, along that road of life, there hadn't been all of those distractions, I might have yielded myself a doctor, a lawyer, a statesmen. Instead, I am meager box monkey, toiling in the bowels of a UPS shipping center. And what about those distractions -- was it I who make the sip of wine so available? Or pumped broadband internet into my studio apartment so that all flavors of pornography could be viewed? And that devil weed...oh how she tempts me.

This is truly why I cry. Not for the impending day that I will stand in judgment, and the requisite community service. No, I fear not the Saturday I will spend on the side of the highway, picking up litter, enduring the honks and catcalls of my social betters as they speed by in their autos, but I do weep for the road that has been traveled by me. I am truly lost.

Now, who's got a smoke?