Pondering on my road construction experience, I thought of one instance that has managed, I am told, to turn me into an amusing anecdote shared with classes at the Traffic Control Supervisor certification program.
We were working on US 50, headed east from Lamar (if you drive over that road in the future, think of me- I've walked every inch of that sucker from main street to about seven miles out of town, and I've done it several times) doing a recycle.
Now, recycling roads is an interesting concept, and it creates a lot less waste. What they do is, they bring in a big "train" of equipment, about five hundred feet long. The first two trucks are "burners," they've got ginormous propane tanks on top, and hanging underneath are the worlds fastest pig cookers. They heat the asphalt thats already there to a proper temperature to slightly liquefy the oils in the mixture that hold it all together. The next piece is a roto-mill of a smaller type than we usually see, that is attached to another truck. It grinds up the first inch or two of asphalt, and then lays it into a neat windrow in the middle of the lane. After this comes a semi full of NEW asphalt. Then the paver, which picks up the old asphalt, mixes it with a little of the new asphalt from the truck, and lays it all down, in a nice shiny new road. As I said, this whole processional is about five hundred feet long, and it moves slow enough that the semi driver is instructed to place his truck in neutral and let the paver push him along. Thanks to the sheer girth of all of this equipment, and the fact that there are a lot of workers around a lot of really noisy machinery, a flagger stays with the train and slows people down going by the whole shebang.
On this particular day, I was that flagger. The fact that traffic is coming from two directions means that I had to walk to each end of the train, so that the traffic would see my slow sign BEFORE they passed the paving operations at a bazillion miles an hour. Trust me, when you're the one standing on that yellow line, trying to slow people down, forty five is NOT slow enough.
In one line, coming from the front of the train, we had a bright one that wanted to go sixty five. He was in the middle and I can only assume that the other end had said they didn't have traffic, because the gap was too large for Mr Gofast to have been lagging back.
I tend to walk a ways in front of whatever it is I'm "guarding" for the simple fact that its easier to be seen that way, and I had walked maybe a hundred feet in front of the first burner truck. I saw the speed demon coming, and waved my slow sign a bit. Hmm, must not see me. I hang the sign out into the lane he's driving in (a surefire way to get the attention of the tunnel vision struck) and he starts slowing down. I pull the sign back, and he speeds up. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
I finally get fed up with it and figure that he doesn't understand the dangers of this place, radio that I'm going to stop one of the cars and ask him to go by the paver slowly, and step out into the lane, flipping my sign to "Stop."
The guy stops, rolls down his window, and the first word out of his mouth is "WHAT?!?"
"Sir, I'm going to need you to go about twenty five miles an hour past our paver, as you can see we have a lot of workers down here, and they can't hear much next to that noisy equipment."
"You can't tell me that!"
"Sir, I can tell you that, its for your safety and that of our crew members, now, once you're past the paver you can speed up to-"
"YOU can't tell me that! You aren't a cop, you aren't my mother, and you cannot tell me how fast to drive!"
"Sir, I may not be a cop but I AM traffic control, and that means that yes, I can tell you how fast to drive, while you are in the construction zone. Aside from that you were driving faster than the posted speed limit of forty five to begin with. Now, I need you to drive at about twenty five miles an-"
"NO!"
This is about the point where I started losing my temper. He had other people behind him that were being held up, he was being flat out obnoxious, and that petulant "no" kicked my switch from "polite and professional" to "oh HELL no" in a heart beat. Then he added to it.
"I'm going to call CDOT and report you!"
"You want to use my phone? Both of the engineers on this job are on speed dial.. actually, there's one of them there, would you like me to call him over for you?"
"I'm going to call your boss and complain!"
"Again, would you like to use my phone? Or were you talking about my immediate supervisor here on site? I can get her if you like,"
"You're going to lose your job for this!!"
"Listen, buddy. Look around you. You see all these vests and hardhats? Anyone out here in a vest and a hardhat is Jesus, and can tell you to do whatever the hell they like as long as it concerns traffic and safety. Me? I'm god. Now you have two choices at this point, you can drive through MY site in an orderly and safe manner or you can pull your happy ass right over there on the shoulder and SIT THERE until the state patrol shows up. Did you not notice the damn signs as you were coming in that stated that fines are doubled? Not to mention the fact that if you give him the same shitty attitude you've given me, you're likely to get slapped with reckless endangerment and reckless driving on top of the speeding violation. If you run me, sir, I will get your license plate number and I WILL report you to the state patrol, and you WILL be stopped for it, wherever they find you."
I had seen him tense at the mention of the cops, and I figured he was preparing to run for it. He didn't, after he realized I was serious about turning him in.
"Now are you going to be a good boy and go through my site in a safe and proper manner or would you like to have this discussion with the nice officers?"
He went past the paver at twenty five, and then floored it on out of the site.
A couple of minutes later I hear on the radio: "Farmgirl, have you been cussing at traffic?"
"Yes, but he deserved it."
Apparently one of the crew members had run into my supervisor elsewhere on site, and related the story, as related to him by the driver of the first burner truck, which caught up with me in time for the cussing to start. I'm still not sure how he managed to hear what I was saying, but it was pretty much word for word, so I suppose I might have been a little loud.
I was also reported to have grown three feet in height, sprouted coarse dark hair all over my body, and large curving horns.
This is my legacy to traffic control.
Oy.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
What Goes Around....
First, I think I should point out some specifics of my job, in road construction. Some days I stand there with a stick, and some days I drive the Pilot Car. It all depends on what day it is, really. This story actually happened fairly recently, and it caused no little amount of uproar, in a couple of different senses.
On the day in question, I was working a little side road, that got maybe five or six cars a day. Not much excitement. Not many people around either, which makes handling the call of nature a fairly simple task, even for us setters, if we're not too squeamish to pop a squat.
This particular day was a holiday weekend, and everyone was off site, or so I thought. The concrete cutters had been there doing some routine maintenance on their equipment, but I'd seen them head south an hour earlier. So, when nature called, I didn't think much of it. Stepped behind the light plant to shield myself from the flagger across the highway and any traffic that they might get while I was otherwise occupied, and dropped trou.
Just in time to see the cutters pop up over the hill on the highway, with a full view of me watering the roadside foliage.
Crap.
Ah well, its construction, and MOST of the males in construction have the understanding that we setters have a little bit more to hang out in the breeze than the pointers do, but no less need to do so, and they politely "don't see" anything. Just like we of the mammary glands "don't see" anything when they stand really close to a vehicle tire and look innocent.
Boy, was I wrong about these guys.
About the time I'm re-covering the, er, "playground area," I notice that they're waving at me. And hanging out the window to do it. And they continue waving, while they make left turn (away from me) and start back in the direction they came from, on the other side of the slab.
*blink blink*
At this point I'm getting a little annoyed at their behavior, because its Just Not Polite, but I'm still willing to blow it off, provided they show good behavior the next time I see them.
Boy, did they screw that one up.
They came back, in all their unwashed glory, and continued their ape-like behavior, up to and including the chimpanzee resembling grin on the face of the passenger.
And then, fifteen minutes later, they pulled in and talked to me. Well, the driver talked to me. The passenger sat there and continued his impression of a zoo chimp, a good enough job that I was beginning to wonder if he was contemplating flinging poo, or something else that the smaller apes and monkeys like to fling at bus loads of school children.
At this point, their behavior got reported to my supervisor. She, being practical minded, reported it to the owner of the company to deal with on the higher levels, and then noticed that... whoopsie, the cutters had run off and left the site, leaving behind their lunch box.
Well, we wouldn't want it to get stolen, so she brought it to me for safe keeping. Somehow along the way, the zipper that held it closed malfunctioned, and everything inside just.... blew away.
And somehow, while it was in my possession, and before we decided that really, it was unlikely to be stolen sitting on the slab right beside part of the cutters' equipment, some wandering ghostly bum came by and took a whiz in it. And then another one did it, and another. And after we placed it back where they could find it, ANOTHER one showed up and whizzed all over it!
I mean REALLY! How many wandering ghostly bums do we HAVE around here? Or maybe they're Ninja bums... all's I know is, I never saw 'em.
*whistles innocently*
I also never heard a word about the lunchbox incident from the higher-ups, but I DID hear that every man on site got a sexual harassment lecture. Kind of unfair since 90% of the guys out there have been great, but the ones who didn't need it won't pay it any mind anyway.
The moral of the story... Its better to be Pissed Off than to have your lunchbox Pissed In.
Or maybe its "don't be a snarky sexist knob-gobbler and harass the female flaggers, or the whole crew will take revenge" ......
On the day in question, I was working a little side road, that got maybe five or six cars a day. Not much excitement. Not many people around either, which makes handling the call of nature a fairly simple task, even for us setters, if we're not too squeamish to pop a squat.
This particular day was a holiday weekend, and everyone was off site, or so I thought. The concrete cutters had been there doing some routine maintenance on their equipment, but I'd seen them head south an hour earlier. So, when nature called, I didn't think much of it. Stepped behind the light plant to shield myself from the flagger across the highway and any traffic that they might get while I was otherwise occupied, and dropped trou.
Just in time to see the cutters pop up over the hill on the highway, with a full view of me watering the roadside foliage.
Crap.
Ah well, its construction, and MOST of the males in construction have the understanding that we setters have a little bit more to hang out in the breeze than the pointers do, but no less need to do so, and they politely "don't see" anything. Just like we of the mammary glands "don't see" anything when they stand really close to a vehicle tire and look innocent.
Boy, was I wrong about these guys.
About the time I'm re-covering the, er, "playground area," I notice that they're waving at me. And hanging out the window to do it. And they continue waving, while they make left turn (away from me) and start back in the direction they came from, on the other side of the slab.
*blink blink*
At this point I'm getting a little annoyed at their behavior, because its Just Not Polite, but I'm still willing to blow it off, provided they show good behavior the next time I see them.
Boy, did they screw that one up.
They came back, in all their unwashed glory, and continued their ape-like behavior, up to and including the chimpanzee resembling grin on the face of the passenger.
And then, fifteen minutes later, they pulled in and talked to me. Well, the driver talked to me. The passenger sat there and continued his impression of a zoo chimp, a good enough job that I was beginning to wonder if he was contemplating flinging poo, or something else that the smaller apes and monkeys like to fling at bus loads of school children.
At this point, their behavior got reported to my supervisor. She, being practical minded, reported it to the owner of the company to deal with on the higher levels, and then noticed that... whoopsie, the cutters had run off and left the site, leaving behind their lunch box.
Well, we wouldn't want it to get stolen, so she brought it to me for safe keeping. Somehow along the way, the zipper that held it closed malfunctioned, and everything inside just.... blew away.
And somehow, while it was in my possession, and before we decided that really, it was unlikely to be stolen sitting on the slab right beside part of the cutters' equipment, some wandering ghostly bum came by and took a whiz in it. And then another one did it, and another. And after we placed it back where they could find it, ANOTHER one showed up and whizzed all over it!
I mean REALLY! How many wandering ghostly bums do we HAVE around here? Or maybe they're Ninja bums... all's I know is, I never saw 'em.
*whistles innocently*
I also never heard a word about the lunchbox incident from the higher-ups, but I DID hear that every man on site got a sexual harassment lecture. Kind of unfair since 90% of the guys out there have been great, but the ones who didn't need it won't pay it any mind anyway.
The moral of the story... Its better to be Pissed Off than to have your lunchbox Pissed In.
Or maybe its "don't be a snarky sexist knob-gobbler and harass the female flaggers, or the whole crew will take revenge" ......
Saturday, June 16, 2007
First Ever Ladies' Sidesaddle Rodeo
Reading through some others' blogs, I've found a couple of posts on the species that provides us with such wonderful things as steak, and hamburger. I decided to add my two cents.
Growing up in a rural area, you learn quickly that nine times out of ten, cows are not the smartest creatures on this planet. This would be why they're food, and not pets. The tenth time almost always comes at the worst possible moment, "almost" because calves that are bottle raised and exposed to more than "fence, more fence, gate, OH! hole in the fence, wooohoo!" can show some real promise for the mischief olympics.
Some short and simple facts about cattle.
Your average bovine weighs MUCH more than you do. If they step on you/kick you/brush you accidentally as they go by, it hurts.
However, most cattle are afraid of people. Of any size. I've seen a herd of placidly grazing charolets go into a raving tizzy because a two year old waddles into their general area and starts giggling and yelling "MOOO cows! MOOOOOO!" I'm not sure what was more entertaining. The startled and panicky reaction of the cattle, or the disappointed look on the two year old's face when they refused to moo on command.
Our cattle are not quite as spooky as some. We tend to treat them to "cake," a protein supplement that is formed into pellets about the size of a shotgun shell, on a semi regular basis, and since we distribute this by dint of laying the bags out on the tail gate and having one person drive while the other scatters the Cow Candy out behind us, they come running pretty much every time you drop the tailgate on the pickup. However, if you're trying to get them back into the corral, because some bright boy at the electric company left the gate open whilst checking out a power outage on lines that happen to cross your pasturage, they turn into rip-snorting spooky old biddies. They also completely forget where the corral gate is, and high tail it for the other side of the country whenever you approach them. Sometimes. Sometimes you walk up open the gate and start hollering "You sorry b#$%&es, get your butts in here!" and they come running, to file into the pen in an orderly fashion, and on out into the fenced pasture that they're SUPPOSED to be in.
The most fun, though, is branding time.
Colorado is a brand state, which means we have to brand our calves before we can ship them across state lines. The sale barn that my grandfather prefers is in Kansas. So, we brand, on a semi-regular basis.
Last year, the time rolled around where grandpa wanted to brand. We consulted the almanac, told him the moon was wrong, and he proceeded to insist, in nearly the same tone as my two year old nephew uses when HE's denied something. So, we get the cattle gathered, dose the cows and the bulls with the super med that protects against seven different kinds of critters that live on or in the ones we want to eat, and start in on the calves.
Due to my delicate sensibilities, (and my uncanny ability to levitate to the top of the nearest fence if a creature weighing about four times what I do decides it wants a piece of me,) my usual job at branding time is pushing calves. That is, moving them from the pen, to the alley, and into the chute. Fairly monotonous, broken up with the potential for getting feet stepped on, crushed against the walls of the crowd chute, or just flat run over, as the 100-400 pound calves figure out that whatever is at the end of that crowd chute is Not A Good Thing.
This particular day, things were going fairly well, until I ran across one heifer calf that was determined she wasn't getting within four feet of the turn into the calf cradle. I tried the sorting stick (a four foot long slightly flexible PVC prod) poking her with the end of it in the backside, usually enough to make them ease on forward. Not an inch. I tried tapping the side of the stick on her flanks... nothing. I tried getting right up behind her and scratching on her roasts... nada. So, I resorted to a trick I don't usually have to use, grabbed hold of her flyswatter and twisted it around up over her back, and pulled forward on it.
First time I've ever had one BACK UP when I did that.
During the ensuing confusion, the heifer in question got turned around and squeezed back past a little bull, so I got him chivvy'd on up into the cradle and went back to work on little miss stubborn. The more insistent I was that she go forward, the more convinced she became that she didn't want to do that. She got turned around on me again, and I saw the light go on upstairs as she finally figured out that she was bigger than little 'ol me, and promptly went to take me out. I did my levitating act, wound up on the gate of the crowd chute, one cheek planted firmly on top, one foot hooked in the rails, and one foot dangling.
Thats when the first ever Ladies' Sidesaddle Rodeo began.
That heifer came dead on for me, even after everything but one boot was up out of her sight line... she hit my foot, slid me back into the gate latch, and by the time I got my right foot out of her way, the gate was barely caught. She backed off and I breathed a sigh of relief, about three seconds too soon. That crazy little steak-on-wheels stepped back, assessed the situation, and ran into that gate as hard as she could. Gate pops open, I pop off.
Right into a perfect sidesaddle position on the heifer.
Now, I'm pretty proud of two things about this whole debacle. Number one, I never dropped my stick. Those things are an invaluable tool for reaching over/around the animals nearest you and tapping the one shoving at the others gently on the nose, discouraging them from the activities which caused you to get a brand new tattoo of the pattern of the fencing in your back. Number two, I stayed on that heifer for four jumps before she unassed me onto another gate. This one with rounded corners, which I remembered to be thankful for as I slid gracefully over one of the aforementioned corners and to the ground.
Once I could hear over the running litany of every cuss word I've ever heard in my life and a couple that I'm pretty sure I made up on the spot, I realized that I'd been laying on the ground for longer than my co-branders were comfortable with. I heard a chorus of "Are you Ok?" from the general vicinity of the calf cradle, and climbed to my feet.
Now, I'm pretty sure I said something along the lines of "I'm fine, back to work" but witness accounts swear I leaped to my feet, brandishing the sorting stick like a rapier, and shouted "Have at thee, foul villain!" before diving into the milling group of calves to separate out the one that had just given me a bruise the size of the county seat on my left thigh.
She got to the calf cradle, by dint of me hanging off the sides of the crowd chute like some kind of cowgirl monkey, and planting both boots on her hindquarters at the end of a good swing.
No one has broken the record for Sidesaddle Bucking Calf Riding yet. I don't think any of them have the guts to try it.
But I think I'll let the record stand, anyway.
Growing up in a rural area, you learn quickly that nine times out of ten, cows are not the smartest creatures on this planet. This would be why they're food, and not pets. The tenth time almost always comes at the worst possible moment, "almost" because calves that are bottle raised and exposed to more than "fence, more fence, gate, OH! hole in the fence, wooohoo!" can show some real promise for the mischief olympics.
Some short and simple facts about cattle.
Your average bovine weighs MUCH more than you do. If they step on you/kick you/brush you accidentally as they go by, it hurts.
However, most cattle are afraid of people. Of any size. I've seen a herd of placidly grazing charolets go into a raving tizzy because a two year old waddles into their general area and starts giggling and yelling "MOOO cows! MOOOOOO!" I'm not sure what was more entertaining. The startled and panicky reaction of the cattle, or the disappointed look on the two year old's face when they refused to moo on command.
Our cattle are not quite as spooky as some. We tend to treat them to "cake," a protein supplement that is formed into pellets about the size of a shotgun shell, on a semi regular basis, and since we distribute this by dint of laying the bags out on the tail gate and having one person drive while the other scatters the Cow Candy out behind us, they come running pretty much every time you drop the tailgate on the pickup. However, if you're trying to get them back into the corral, because some bright boy at the electric company left the gate open whilst checking out a power outage on lines that happen to cross your pasturage, they turn into rip-snorting spooky old biddies. They also completely forget where the corral gate is, and high tail it for the other side of the country whenever you approach them. Sometimes. Sometimes you walk up open the gate and start hollering "You sorry b#$%&es, get your butts in here!" and they come running, to file into the pen in an orderly fashion, and on out into the fenced pasture that they're SUPPOSED to be in.
The most fun, though, is branding time.
Colorado is a brand state, which means we have to brand our calves before we can ship them across state lines. The sale barn that my grandfather prefers is in Kansas. So, we brand, on a semi-regular basis.
Last year, the time rolled around where grandpa wanted to brand. We consulted the almanac, told him the moon was wrong, and he proceeded to insist, in nearly the same tone as my two year old nephew uses when HE's denied something. So, we get the cattle gathered, dose the cows and the bulls with the super med that protects against seven different kinds of critters that live on or in the ones we want to eat, and start in on the calves.
Due to my delicate sensibilities, (and my uncanny ability to levitate to the top of the nearest fence if a creature weighing about four times what I do decides it wants a piece of me,) my usual job at branding time is pushing calves. That is, moving them from the pen, to the alley, and into the chute. Fairly monotonous, broken up with the potential for getting feet stepped on, crushed against the walls of the crowd chute, or just flat run over, as the 100-400 pound calves figure out that whatever is at the end of that crowd chute is Not A Good Thing.
This particular day, things were going fairly well, until I ran across one heifer calf that was determined she wasn't getting within four feet of the turn into the calf cradle. I tried the sorting stick (a four foot long slightly flexible PVC prod) poking her with the end of it in the backside, usually enough to make them ease on forward. Not an inch. I tried tapping the side of the stick on her flanks... nothing. I tried getting right up behind her and scratching on her roasts... nada. So, I resorted to a trick I don't usually have to use, grabbed hold of her flyswatter and twisted it around up over her back, and pulled forward on it.
First time I've ever had one BACK UP when I did that.
During the ensuing confusion, the heifer in question got turned around and squeezed back past a little bull, so I got him chivvy'd on up into the cradle and went back to work on little miss stubborn. The more insistent I was that she go forward, the more convinced she became that she didn't want to do that. She got turned around on me again, and I saw the light go on upstairs as she finally figured out that she was bigger than little 'ol me, and promptly went to take me out. I did my levitating act, wound up on the gate of the crowd chute, one cheek planted firmly on top, one foot hooked in the rails, and one foot dangling.
Thats when the first ever Ladies' Sidesaddle Rodeo began.
That heifer came dead on for me, even after everything but one boot was up out of her sight line... she hit my foot, slid me back into the gate latch, and by the time I got my right foot out of her way, the gate was barely caught. She backed off and I breathed a sigh of relief, about three seconds too soon. That crazy little steak-on-wheels stepped back, assessed the situation, and ran into that gate as hard as she could. Gate pops open, I pop off.
Right into a perfect sidesaddle position on the heifer.
Now, I'm pretty proud of two things about this whole debacle. Number one, I never dropped my stick. Those things are an invaluable tool for reaching over/around the animals nearest you and tapping the one shoving at the others gently on the nose, discouraging them from the activities which caused you to get a brand new tattoo of the pattern of the fencing in your back. Number two, I stayed on that heifer for four jumps before she unassed me onto another gate. This one with rounded corners, which I remembered to be thankful for as I slid gracefully over one of the aforementioned corners and to the ground.
Once I could hear over the running litany of every cuss word I've ever heard in my life and a couple that I'm pretty sure I made up on the spot, I realized that I'd been laying on the ground for longer than my co-branders were comfortable with. I heard a chorus of "Are you Ok?" from the general vicinity of the calf cradle, and climbed to my feet.
Now, I'm pretty sure I said something along the lines of "I'm fine, back to work" but witness accounts swear I leaped to my feet, brandishing the sorting stick like a rapier, and shouted "Have at thee, foul villain!" before diving into the milling group of calves to separate out the one that had just given me a bruise the size of the county seat on my left thigh.
She got to the calf cradle, by dint of me hanging off the sides of the crowd chute like some kind of cowgirl monkey, and planting both boots on her hindquarters at the end of a good swing.
No one has broken the record for Sidesaddle Bucking Calf Riding yet. I don't think any of them have the guts to try it.
But I think I'll let the record stand, anyway.
Commentary on another Blog (Already?!?)
Ok, well, I've been reading LawDog's blog for a while now (ever since I was turned on to it, and slowly, I'm making my way through the archives,) and I find him absolutely Hilarious. If you haven't found him yet, check him out at The Law Dog Files
So recently he made a post, concerning a young man who flipped him off, and subsequently received a traffic citation for illegal use of a turn signal. It was an amusing story and I personally think that there was a certain savoir faire to it. Apparently not everyone agrees with me on the humorous, and frankly just, nature of LawDog's actions, because he's received many, many comments on it. A few of them seem to think that its an abuse of power, some form of persecution, or that LawDog simply did this to salve his own ego. Since the comments section already has a large number of extended posts, I thought I'd just write up my commentary on it over here, and post a link for anyone who cares to see what I have to say on the matter. So, here goes.....
Yo, dude. Chill out, ok? Perhaps LawDog should have stood upon his moral high ground and firmly turned the other cheek when some young twerp decided that the cop couldn't touch him because his "daddy said." Perhaps. I however am of the mind that this kid needed to have a reality check, as he was leaning towards the kind of attitude that entirely too many people in this country seem to be cultivating.
The "I-can-do-whatever-I-want-because-I-know-the-law-and-its- not-illegal-so-neener-neener" attitude.
Now, if you actually know the law, and the local permutations of state statutes and city codes, and you're right, fine, whatever, I wish you joy of it. However, if you're simply being obnoxious for the sake of being obnoxious, with half-assed information and a source of "daddy says" well... take your just deserts.
This is totally aside from my personal belief that anyone in this country who is fully prepared to scream "HELP!" at the top of their lungs should trouble come knocking on their little doorstep, rather than doing whatever they can to resolve the situation themselves, (which, yes, sometimes is dialing 911 and screaming for help, but not always) should show a little bit of respect to the people that they expect to cover their lilly white butts should Johnny AxeMurderer show up in their bedroom. Just a personal thought, if you depend upon the police, fire department, EMT's, or any other form of outside assistance from a person or persons employed by the government, local or federal, in any situation, show some respect. These people get paid crap money to put themselves into harms way for you and me. Its a fairly simple concept.
What? You live in a tiny little town and NOTHING like that ever happens? Heh. You're funny. Sure, perhaps it doesn't happen as often as it does in the Human Feedlots (read: cities) but it DOES happen. No one is immune. Period. I live in a town thats Population: Few, and in MY memory we've had fires, brawls that endangered innocent bystanders, and a shooting in a residential area that could have gone MUCH worse than it did. Not to mention petty robberies, drunk and disorderlies, drunken driving, reckless endangerment, etc, etc, etc.
No matter where you are you are not immune to the lower elements of society, random chance, and you are most definitely not immune to Mr. Murphy or his bastard child, Blind Bad Luck. Therefore, unless you're planning on creating your own country, you should show a little bit of respect to those people who make the choice to put on the attire, and take that first step out the door to come and help YOU. If you are planning on creating your own country, give me a call. I want to watch.
Now, for the specifics. Law Dog saw a young man displaying a shocking lack of respect, and he gave him a slap on the wrist in an entirely legal way that will have no lasting repercussions for the young man, and will probably make him think twice about displaying that level of obnoxious arrogance again. He could have done worse. Some police officers DO put on that badge and turn into ravening power hungry mongrels. Some police officers might have followed the kid around and got him on something far worse than a simple equipment citation, and possibly left him with a record for the rest of his life. Not all officers are nice guys. That doesn't mean you shouldn't respect the uniform, if not the man. Law Dog did the kid, and society as a whole, a favor, in the mildest way he could and still be effective.
Or at least thats the way I see it.
So recently he made a post, concerning a young man who flipped him off, and subsequently received a traffic citation for illegal use of a turn signal. It was an amusing story and I personally think that there was a certain savoir faire to it. Apparently not everyone agrees with me on the humorous, and frankly just, nature of LawDog's actions, because he's received many, many comments on it. A few of them seem to think that its an abuse of power, some form of persecution, or that LawDog simply did this to salve his own ego. Since the comments section already has a large number of extended posts, I thought I'd just write up my commentary on it over here, and post a link for anyone who cares to see what I have to say on the matter. So, here goes.....
Yo, dude. Chill out, ok? Perhaps LawDog should have stood upon his moral high ground and firmly turned the other cheek when some young twerp decided that the cop couldn't touch him because his "daddy said." Perhaps. I however am of the mind that this kid needed to have a reality check, as he was leaning towards the kind of attitude that entirely too many people in this country seem to be cultivating.
The "I-can-do-whatever-I-want-because-I-know-the-law-and-its- not-illegal-so-neener-neener" attitude.
Now, if you actually know the law, and the local permutations of state statutes and city codes, and you're right, fine, whatever, I wish you joy of it. However, if you're simply being obnoxious for the sake of being obnoxious, with half-assed information and a source of "daddy says" well... take your just deserts.
This is totally aside from my personal belief that anyone in this country who is fully prepared to scream "HELP!" at the top of their lungs should trouble come knocking on their little doorstep, rather than doing whatever they can to resolve the situation themselves, (which, yes, sometimes is dialing 911 and screaming for help, but not always) should show a little bit of respect to the people that they expect to cover their lilly white butts should Johnny AxeMurderer show up in their bedroom. Just a personal thought, if you depend upon the police, fire department, EMT's, or any other form of outside assistance from a person or persons employed by the government, local or federal, in any situation, show some respect. These people get paid crap money to put themselves into harms way for you and me. Its a fairly simple concept.
What? You live in a tiny little town and NOTHING like that ever happens? Heh. You're funny. Sure, perhaps it doesn't happen as often as it does in the Human Feedlots (read: cities) but it DOES happen. No one is immune. Period. I live in a town thats Population: Few, and in MY memory we've had fires, brawls that endangered innocent bystanders, and a shooting in a residential area that could have gone MUCH worse than it did. Not to mention petty robberies, drunk and disorderlies, drunken driving, reckless endangerment, etc, etc, etc.
No matter where you are you are not immune to the lower elements of society, random chance, and you are most definitely not immune to Mr. Murphy or his bastard child, Blind Bad Luck. Therefore, unless you're planning on creating your own country, you should show a little bit of respect to those people who make the choice to put on the attire, and take that first step out the door to come and help YOU. If you are planning on creating your own country, give me a call. I want to watch.
Now, for the specifics. Law Dog saw a young man displaying a shocking lack of respect, and he gave him a slap on the wrist in an entirely legal way that will have no lasting repercussions for the young man, and will probably make him think twice about displaying that level of obnoxious arrogance again. He could have done worse. Some police officers DO put on that badge and turn into ravening power hungry mongrels. Some police officers might have followed the kid around and got him on something far worse than a simple equipment citation, and possibly left him with a record for the rest of his life. Not all officers are nice guys. That doesn't mean you shouldn't respect the uniform, if not the man. Law Dog did the kid, and society as a whole, a favor, in the mildest way he could and still be effective.
Or at least thats the way I see it.
New Blog
Well, I find myself spreading my meager blogging habits from LiveJournal over here to Blogger, with a new name and a whole new audience, who will no doubt discover me eventually, and perhaps find some entertainment in my own brand of ranting. I've decided to keep my LiveJournal for a keeping up with friends type thing, so this one will mostly be stories, rants about things that annoy me at the moment, and mentions of others' blogs.
A little about me, I suppose. I live in BFE Colorado, way down in the southeastern corner. Nearly as far as you can get without a stiff wind shoving you over into Kansas or the Oklahoma Panhandle. Its a farming and ranching community, and I help out on the family farm and ranch, thus the title of the blog and my spiffy new name over here. Most of the things I think up come to me while I have my posterior firmly planted in a deteriorating John Deere seat, tracking my way back and forth across a remote field. Unfortunately I rarely remember them in the pattern of the daily shut down, which actually tweaks my tail occasionally. Oh, wait, supposed to be info... Ok, well, I've been hanging around the little spinny green ball for about 22 years, standard childhood, I suppose. A few interesting things have happened to me over the years, and I'll probably share them at some point.
I also work road construction, three or so days a week. You know that little bastard standing around with a stop sign on a stick, interrupting your day, making you late, and generally just annoying the crap out of you because you're impatient and they're standing there looking BORED? Thats me. Trust me, folks, ya'll don't make our day all sunshine and light, either. More on that in another post.
You'll learn more about me as this thing goes along, and bog only knows how often I'll post here, but at least its no longer an empty blog, just sitting here looking all forlorn and lonely.
- farmgirl
A little about me, I suppose. I live in BFE Colorado, way down in the southeastern corner. Nearly as far as you can get without a stiff wind shoving you over into Kansas or the Oklahoma Panhandle. Its a farming and ranching community, and I help out on the family farm and ranch, thus the title of the blog and my spiffy new name over here. Most of the things I think up come to me while I have my posterior firmly planted in a deteriorating John Deere seat, tracking my way back and forth across a remote field. Unfortunately I rarely remember them in the pattern of the daily shut down, which actually tweaks my tail occasionally. Oh, wait, supposed to be info... Ok, well, I've been hanging around the little spinny green ball for about 22 years, standard childhood, I suppose. A few interesting things have happened to me over the years, and I'll probably share them at some point.
I also work road construction, three or so days a week. You know that little bastard standing around with a stop sign on a stick, interrupting your day, making you late, and generally just annoying the crap out of you because you're impatient and they're standing there looking BORED? Thats me. Trust me, folks, ya'll don't make our day all sunshine and light, either. More on that in another post.
You'll learn more about me as this thing goes along, and bog only knows how often I'll post here, but at least its no longer an empty blog, just sitting here looking all forlorn and lonely.
- farmgirl
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