Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Real Southern Hospitality!
About ten years ago Linny and Susan Pacillo of Anchorage took exception to the number of parking tickets issued by the municipality and decided to do something about it. So they dressed in pink tutus and drove around the city feeding money into expired parking meters. Grateful citizens bestowed upon them the title of the parking fairies. Oh, those magnificent fairies in their pink tutus.
It seems that people are always taking exception to the actions of duly appointed law officials. Speeding tickets are high on everyone’s list. The heyday of fuzzbusters came and went. People could and did resort to elaborate excuses to explain their penchant for driving over the limit. I know one female who was pulled over and as the officer of the law approached her car, she kicked off her shoe and jammed it under the gas pedal. She obliging explained her dilemma to the man. He forgave her and she lived to speed another day. Now, if you are a man it might not work for you, especially if you are wearing boots. Two problems come to mind. First, how do you get a tight-fitting boot off in a jiffy? Secondly, how are you going to make it fit under the gas pedal? Of course, if the smell is bad enough, the officer might gag and forget all about the ticket. Another useful excuse is a bee sting. But you had better make sure that there is a bee in the car, or at least something that can pass for a bee. Spelling bees don’t count. Another female who was prone to drive 85 or so mph, spotted a flashing light in her rear view mirror. Instead of stopping she proceeded pell mell down the road until she spotted a service station. She pulled in and ran frantically toward the restroom. When she reappeared her only words were: “Whew! Just made it!” The officer smiled and put his ticket book back into his pocket. The ladies always seem to have the best excuses.
But what do you do if you get caught in an honest to gosh speed trap. There are still several of them around the country. My first and only run-in with one occurred way back about 1967. I was traveling from Houston to Lake Charles, Louisiana, and unfortunately for me I had to cross over into the fringes of Vinton, Louisiana. I was in a bit of a hurry and I was going about two miles faster than legally permitted. I sailed past a car with its trunk up and some odds and ends beside the left rear tire. Obviously, someone was changing a flat. At least that it what I was supposed to think. The only thing was that the car had four crisp new tires. The odds and ends were really radar equipment. As I topped the hill I saw a long train of cars pulled over on the shoulder and some flashing lights. There was also a road block on the interstate. I thought there must be an accident. Wrong! Soon an officer approached me with a pad in hand and asked to see my driver’s license. He proceeded to write me a ticket and told me to follow all the other cars when they started moving again. He kept my license. I looked down at the ticket and saw that he had added three miles to my actual speed. I had always heard that the folks in Louisiana were not particularly good at math. When there were about fifty car arranged in a nice straight line, we were escorted to the courthouse. We each forked over five bucks to get our driver’s license back. We were told that if we wished to contest the ticket, we would have to come back four days later to traffic court. The idea of essentially spending two days of my time to contest the matter was preposterous. So I thanked the good people of Vinton for their warm hospitality and left. As I drove away from the courthouse I saw another line of fifty cars approaching. My parting wish was that each of them would give thanks for true Southern hospitality—Louisiana style.
About ten years ago Linny and Susan Pacillo of Anchorage took exception to the number of parking tickets issued by the municipality and decided to do something about it. So they dressed in pink tutus and drove around the city feeding money into expired parking meters. Grateful citizens bestowed upon them the title of the parking fairies. Oh, those magnificent fairies in their pink tutus.
It seems that people are always taking exception to the actions of duly appointed law officials. Speeding tickets are high on everyone’s list. The heyday of fuzzbusters came and went. People could and did resort to elaborate excuses to explain their penchant for driving over the limit. I know one female who was pulled over and as the officer of the law approached her car, she kicked off her shoe and jammed it under the gas pedal. She obliging explained her dilemma to the man. He forgave her and she lived to speed another day. Now, if you are a man it might not work for you, especially if you are wearing boots. Two problems come to mind. First, how do you get a tight-fitting boot off in a jiffy? Secondly, how are you going to make it fit under the gas pedal? Of course, if the smell is bad enough, the officer might gag and forget all about the ticket. Another useful excuse is a bee sting. But you had better make sure that there is a bee in the car, or at least something that can pass for a bee. Spelling bees don’t count. Another female who was prone to drive 85 or so mph, spotted a flashing light in her rear view mirror. Instead of stopping she proceeded pell mell down the road until she spotted a service station. She pulled in and ran frantically toward the restroom. When she reappeared her only words were: “Whew! Just made it!” The officer smiled and put his ticket book back into his pocket. The ladies always seem to have the best excuses.
But what do you do if you get caught in an honest to gosh speed trap. There are still several of them around the country. My first and only run-in with one occurred way back about 1967. I was traveling from Houston to Lake Charles, Louisiana, and unfortunately for me I had to cross over into the fringes of Vinton, Louisiana. I was in a bit of a hurry and I was going about two miles faster than legally permitted. I sailed past a car with its trunk up and some odds and ends beside the left rear tire. Obviously, someone was changing a flat. At least that it what I was supposed to think. The only thing was that the car had four crisp new tires. The odds and ends were really radar equipment. As I topped the hill I saw a long train of cars pulled over on the shoulder and some flashing lights. There was also a road block on the interstate. I thought there must be an accident. Wrong! Soon an officer approached me with a pad in hand and asked to see my driver’s license. He proceeded to write me a ticket and told me to follow all the other cars when they started moving again. He kept my license. I looked down at the ticket and saw that he had added three miles to my actual speed. I had always heard that the folks in Louisiana were not particularly good at math. When there were about fifty car arranged in a nice straight line, we were escorted to the courthouse. We each forked over five bucks to get our driver’s license back. We were told that if we wished to contest the ticket, we would have to come back four days later to traffic court. The idea of essentially spending two days of my time to contest the matter was preposterous. So I thanked the good people of Vinton for their warm hospitality and left. As I drove away from the courthouse I saw another line of fifty cars approaching. My parting wish was that each of them would give thanks for true Southern hospitality—Louisiana style.
