Part Stoplight! Part Cameraman! All Hero!
Say "cheese," crime! You're photo-finished!
Anyone who knows anything about crime knows there's only two ways to legitimately stop it. You can either get bitten by a radioactive animal and use that flipper that used to be your hand to bitch-slap crime in the face yourself, or you can leave the job to your city’s police force. I recommend the latter, because there’s a good chance the police force just might build a Robocop. Now, I know this is America, and you’re free to choose either option you want, but I’ve seen movies about both, and based on them I can tell you with authority that only one of those options will result in gratuitous shower nudity and rad-as-shit toxic waste head explosions.
The city of Charlotte chose option "B" because, like me, the lawmakers of Charlotte realized the unstoppable fusion of man and machine was the only logical answer to cleaning up the Queen City. However, in true Charlotte fashion, good idealization gave way to poor execution, and they didn’t quite get it right. Instead of turning our policeman corpses into invincible cyborg badasses with awesome catchphrases, they turned our stoplights into photographers. At the risk of editorializing here: pussy retarded photographers.
I recently received a blurry picture of the number "4" in the mail, stapled to a bill for $50, courtesy of "Project Safelight." The project is rumored by the NCDOT to promote safety. It’s rumored by me to promote laziness. Think about it. How many jobs would let you turn in photos of things instead of actual things? I can think of one. Photographer. That’s about it. Man, that shit doesn’t even work for made-up professions. Remember Return of the Jedi? What if Boba Fett would’ve shown up at Jabba’s palace, shrugged, and handed him an 8" X 10" Harrison Ford glossy? Remember that beige guy in the alien band whose face looked like a fat person’s thigh? That guy would still be picking parts of Boba’s blown-up ass out of his clarinet every time a Jawa requested "My Way."
I’ve never received an envelope from the city of Charlotte containing a picture of me helping an old lady across the street, a sheet of G.I. Joe stickers, and a pack of McDonald’s gift certificates, but I run one red light (allegedly) and all of a sudden the light at South Tryon and Arrowwood is motherfucking Annie Lebovits. Installing cameras in stoplights?! Hey NCDOT, if you want to see some really illegal shit install lip-readers in mailboxes. I’d still be paying for all the things I said I was going to turn sideways and shove in NCDOTs ass as I dropped in my check to pay my project safelight fine.
The other thing that kills me about Project Safelight is the ambiguity of the photos. Confession time: I have never run a red light in my life, but I run yellow ones all the time, which is about as illegal as me eating lunch at Taco Bell only ten times less dangerous. This leads me to believe the picture of my plate was taken in that instant the light turned from yellow to red. Of course, the light could’ve been mauve for all we’ll ever know, what with that close-up shot of the top half of one of the numbers in my license plate. It took me an extra year to graduate college, from the U. of S.C. no less, and even I know the reason that picture is of just the license plate is because that’s the only part of the car that was just barely an inch in the intersection when the light turned from yellow to red. But they say the picture in question is of me running a red light? That same logic inspired me to put a picture on my refrigerator of just my leg.
"Why do you have this picture of your leg posted on your fridge?" my friends ask.
"Why do you think?" I say. "Because it’s a picture of me karate chopping through a stack of flaming concrete blocks with one hand and giving Jack Nicholson a high-five with the other. All while launching through a city of cyclopses in my rocket shoes, asshole."
My point is this: if the Queen City is going to spend tax money to combine one thing with something else that will help it fight crime, why not spend it on something awesome, like a boxing glove on a spring that shoots out of an ATM to punch criminals in the groin when they try to rob it. Trust me, Charlotte. I’ve been all around this country, and from what I’ve seen, nothing, and I mean nothing, rallies a community quite like watching crime being punched in the sack real, real hard by the powerful spring-loaded fist of liberty.
Since my computer blew up last week, I can't scan the actual picture of my "truck running a red light," but for a visual aid just imagine a huge black-and-white blur of the top 1/8 of what may be the letter "Y." However, I can post:
This picture of me on top of Mt. Everest holding the head of Ohmar Kadhafi…
…and this one of me two seconds before jumping out of Air Force One with a parachute made completely out of Rebecca Romijn’s bras.
BONUS PHOTO FUN!!!: Hey Homemade Fireworks fans! Guess who that is to the right of me! Initials will do. Winner recieves a 12-pack of PBR c/o me. Hint: It's someone I went to high school with.
Anyone who knows anything about crime knows there's only two ways to legitimately stop it. You can either get bitten by a radioactive animal and use that flipper that used to be your hand to bitch-slap crime in the face yourself, or you can leave the job to your city’s police force. I recommend the latter, because there’s a good chance the police force just might build a Robocop. Now, I know this is America, and you’re free to choose either option you want, but I’ve seen movies about both, and based on them I can tell you with authority that only one of those options will result in gratuitous shower nudity and rad-as-shit toxic waste head explosions.
The city of Charlotte chose option "B" because, like me, the lawmakers of Charlotte realized the unstoppable fusion of man and machine was the only logical answer to cleaning up the Queen City. However, in true Charlotte fashion, good idealization gave way to poor execution, and they didn’t quite get it right. Instead of turning our policeman corpses into invincible cyborg badasses with awesome catchphrases, they turned our stoplights into photographers. At the risk of editorializing here: pussy retarded photographers.
I recently received a blurry picture of the number "4" in the mail, stapled to a bill for $50, courtesy of "Project Safelight." The project is rumored by the NCDOT to promote safety. It’s rumored by me to promote laziness. Think about it. How many jobs would let you turn in photos of things instead of actual things? I can think of one. Photographer. That’s about it. Man, that shit doesn’t even work for made-up professions. Remember Return of the Jedi? What if Boba Fett would’ve shown up at Jabba’s palace, shrugged, and handed him an 8" X 10" Harrison Ford glossy? Remember that beige guy in the alien band whose face looked like a fat person’s thigh? That guy would still be picking parts of Boba’s blown-up ass out of his clarinet every time a Jawa requested "My Way."
I’ve never received an envelope from the city of Charlotte containing a picture of me helping an old lady across the street, a sheet of G.I. Joe stickers, and a pack of McDonald’s gift certificates, but I run one red light (allegedly) and all of a sudden the light at South Tryon and Arrowwood is motherfucking Annie Lebovits. Installing cameras in stoplights?! Hey NCDOT, if you want to see some really illegal shit install lip-readers in mailboxes. I’d still be paying for all the things I said I was going to turn sideways and shove in NCDOTs ass as I dropped in my check to pay my project safelight fine.
The other thing that kills me about Project Safelight is the ambiguity of the photos. Confession time: I have never run a red light in my life, but I run yellow ones all the time, which is about as illegal as me eating lunch at Taco Bell only ten times less dangerous. This leads me to believe the picture of my plate was taken in that instant the light turned from yellow to red. Of course, the light could’ve been mauve for all we’ll ever know, what with that close-up shot of the top half of one of the numbers in my license plate. It took me an extra year to graduate college, from the U. of S.C. no less, and even I know the reason that picture is of just the license plate is because that’s the only part of the car that was just barely an inch in the intersection when the light turned from yellow to red. But they say the picture in question is of me running a red light? That same logic inspired me to put a picture on my refrigerator of just my leg.
"Why do you have this picture of your leg posted on your fridge?" my friends ask.
"Why do you think?" I say. "Because it’s a picture of me karate chopping through a stack of flaming concrete blocks with one hand and giving Jack Nicholson a high-five with the other. All while launching through a city of cyclopses in my rocket shoes, asshole."
My point is this: if the Queen City is going to spend tax money to combine one thing with something else that will help it fight crime, why not spend it on something awesome, like a boxing glove on a spring that shoots out of an ATM to punch criminals in the groin when they try to rob it. Trust me, Charlotte. I’ve been all around this country, and from what I’ve seen, nothing, and I mean nothing, rallies a community quite like watching crime being punched in the sack real, real hard by the powerful spring-loaded fist of liberty.
Since my computer blew up last week, I can't scan the actual picture of my "truck running a red light," but for a visual aid just imagine a huge black-and-white blur of the top 1/8 of what may be the letter "Y." However, I can post:
This picture of me on top of Mt. Everest holding the head of Ohmar Kadhafi…
…and this one of me two seconds before jumping out of Air Force One with a parachute made completely out of Rebecca Romijn’s bras.
BONUS PHOTO FUN!!!: Hey Homemade Fireworks fans! Guess who that is to the right of me! Initials will do. Winner recieves a 12-pack of PBR c/o me. Hint: It's someone I went to high school with.
posted by Mike at
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
1 Comments:
Homemade Fireworks readers--a little background to help you understand the above comments. My friend Eric is a member of the Black Panthers. His dislikes are: Whitey, "The Man," and white people, in that order. As Charlotte's toughest street warrior, Eric was contracted back in '71 to rescue the President's daughter from a gang of...taxpayers. The mission was a success, but not without a price. He took one brass-knuckles in the groin too many, and has been an liberally outspoken opponent of their kind ever since.
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