Well. That's not the best catch-phrase, but by the time I pull a citizen's arrest, I'll come up with one. I will, oh, yes, I will. Something catchy. See what I did there? "Catchy?"
I'm a bit excited about this. The act of performing a citizen's arrest tops my bucket list.
There are many worthy recipients of a citizen's arrest. I'd love to enforce my brand of martial law onto horrible and dangerous drivers. I mean, the other day I saw an idiot swerving lane to lane with his phone held in front of him. And there's the prob. How do I chase the offending moron down without Starsky and Hutching everyone else on the highway?
A bigger problem might be what to do with the guy once I catch him.
"Excuse me, sir, but I'm placing you under citizen's arrest. Um, could you come get in my car while I drive you to the police station?"
I don't see this working out in my favor.
I need a better plan. Of course I certainly don't want to start lugging around guns, even though practically everyone in Kansas has one (and damn proud of it! Ram tough!). Not in this day of commonplace, nightmarish shootings. I could see myself adding to the problem. I've got that addictive sort of personality.
Frankly, I might not know where to draw the line in my impending career as a citizen's arrester. What do I do with those buffoons who wear shorts and t-shirts in thirty degree weather? Do I slip handcuffs on everyone who wears two different types of plaid? I'd be maxing the jail cells out with major fashion faux-pas offenders, a wardrobe-angry Charles Bronson.
According to Ms. Google, my research assistant, I'm allowed to use "reasonable force" should I find it warranted. I'd say the above offenses definitely warrant a good kick to the junk.
The law doesn't make it easy on we citizen arresters, either. The onus is on the arresting citizen to provide probable cause. Not a problem. One look at my captive's mesh see-through shirt and mullet, the police force will hand me the key to the city.
Now all I've got to do is detain the offender until the cops show up. Easy-peezy. I'll sit on him. I can sit like a champ!
There you have it. My solid plan is in effect. Don't cross me citizens! Stuart's on the job!
I'd probably arrest Zach, the "hero" of my Zach and Zora comic mystery series for being such a dolt. Find out if that arrest is warranted by clicking here!
Holy Hitchcock Hell!
I've lived in my house for nearly 30 years and I've never seen nature attack this badly.
Three times--count 'em, three!--birds have done a fly-by over my house and car and let their bowels loose with a vengeance. My car looked like a Jackson Pollock painting on wheels. Or maybe my wife's favored painter pants, a hardware store badge of honor.
I don't get embarrassed often. But I couldn't even take my auto out to the car wash. Not in public. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I took a hose to the car. Didn't help. Next, I donned plastic gloves (hmm...kinda snug...smelled funny), grabbed a towel
(which I marked for non-washable; sorry, favorite rag!) and put on a ball-cap (I still have nightmares recalling when a bird pooped on my head in downtown Kansas City).
Man, the results were a mess. Still better than it was and at least presentable for public viewing.
Same thing happened two days later. Noooooo! And this time, the birds came back with a vengeance. Not only did my car look like a polka-dotted hybrid, but the entire front-side of our house was Dr. Seuss's worst nightmare: large hoopa-paloopa-sploopa splotches of bird crap.
Again the hose didn't work. These particular birds sported some fine intestinal fortitude. To my neighbors' amusement, I put on gloves and took the rag to the house. I grinned (more like grimaced), muttered, "heh, spring cleaning."
During this grotesque procedure, I also discovered I was allergic to bird poop. The first go-round I thought it was the sissy plastic gloves. This time I went hand nekkid and still had the same reaction. My hands turned raw and red.
Above, birds cawed and mocked me, laughing their hideous bird-song of hilarity.
In the dead of night, off I trawled to Fast Eddie's Car Wash ("Open 24-7, every day of the year, no holiday too lonely to get it clean!").
The next morning, my screams filled the house.
This time the damned birds meant business. As a frightening calling card, they left a dead squirrel inches from my car. Really. I couldn't figure out any other way to explain why the squirrel was frozen in a state of shock, eyes wide open and glaring at nuts of eternity. No sign of foul play. No indications of struggle. No blood. Just....horrible, final, sadistic, vengeful death.
So now, like a mad man, I'm holed up in my house. The few times I venture out, I run. Fully covered in a hazmat suit.
And the birds tweet on...
Let me drop a plug for my book, Peculiar County, here. No birds. But there is something mighty peculiar flying the skies...
