Today marks the end of another year. This one was especially turbulent for me and my family. But above all the bad, of course, came the filling of most of the top portion of a half-empty glass.

As many of you know, both my mother-in-law and our daughter, Ellen, were each diagnosed with serious cancer. They underwent surgeries, a couple each, and they received chemo and radiation.

Our daughter’s primary physician initially mis-diagnosed her troubles, telling her several times during several visits, to deal with the intense pain and other horrible issues, and told her to take Tylenol. He also dismissed obvious signs and symptoms as nothing more than “female problems.” In the meantime, and I won’t go into detail, but she lived a life of crying and moaning while doubled over from excruciating pain, while experiencing an agonizing and extremely anemic hell, for more than a year.

Then, fortunately, she visited a specialist for an entirely different issue. It took him only a minute or two to realize that his patient was in serious trouble and had her rushed to a local hospital for immediate, emergency surgery. Her condition, the troubles dismissed by the original doctor, were life-threatening. Thank goodness the specialist recognized the deadly disease symptoms because we learned that the surgery likely saved her life, that very day.

Then came the cancer diagnosis

During the emergency surgery, doctors discovered the disease, and it didn’t look good. Had the primary care physician performed any sort of typical exam for the type of problem he would have caught the cancer a year earlier. A FULL year sooner.

The oncologist overseeing Ellen’s condition decided to approach with a full-on super-aggressive attack. She wasn’t messing around. Chemo and radiation were started right away and, as a result of the intensity of the regimen, the powerful treatments took a huge toll on Ellen’s body and mind and emotions, as well as ruining her family financially. As a result, they’re struggling to meet even the basic human needs—food, clothing, utilities, and shelter.

The Hurricane

Next came the hurricane, a storm that devastated her city and community. Homes just down the road from Ellen’s house were destroyed by wind and water. Fortunately, Ellen’s home is still standing, but it received damage from heavy rains and floodwaters, damage that included ruining their septic system. They now use a pump to drain the bathtub and sinks and there’s a Port-a-John situated at the end of their driveway. This is how a cancer patient, who’s in pain most of the day, must live. Still, her faith is strong and prayer helps her go about her daily life.

Ellen applied for and was denied public assistance. Disability was also denied. In the meantime, Ellen’s husband’s work hours have been cut as result of company shutdowns of related factories. The cost of medication alone is more than their monthly income. The hospital forgives some of the expenses, and many of you contributed to Ellen’s GoFundMe campaign (please click here to contribute), as well as a few of extremely generous private contributions (no amount is too small). But those dollars are gone and bills still arrive and the medication is ongoing, some for life. By the way, Ellen and I are extremely appreciative for your assistance. I’m forever grateful and will never forget it.

My mother-in-law continues regular doses of chemo. Her surgeon and I chatted, in private, immediately after operation and he said her situation was not great. But, what he didn’t know is that, despite her years, Denene’s mom is a strong, independent woman. Cancer and the life-changing, body-altering surgeries were nothing more than a bump in the road for her. She took it all in stride and pushed forward.

Like Ellen, her faith is strong and she relies on prayer to guide her way. Her family is close and devoted to one another.

As soon as she was able Denene’s mother returned to a fairly normal lifestyle, including yard work, hairdresser appointments, shopping trips and, of course, going to church on a regular basis. She drives to her chemo appointments with the company of a friend. She’s tough.

Ellen and my mother-in-law are fighters. They’re strong. And they’re survivors.

Ellen’s last scan showed she’s cancer free. Not pain and sickness and emotionally free, but cancer free. It’s a miracle we didn’t see coming.

At her last scan, my mother-in-law’s results showed her cancer had reduced in size. Still serious, but less of it and what’s there is smaller. They recently  increased the dosage of her ongoing chemo. Hopefully, we’ll soon learn that she, too is cancer free.

The Gifts

Many of you contributed books and other reading material, and gifts, and prayers throughout these ordeals. Those things meant the world to Ellen and my mother-in-law. They helped them escape the world for a little while each day. They’re both avid readers and thoroughly enjoyed the books, and other things. Ellen told me that she often read a book in a single day. The stories took her away from it all for a while.

The Fires

During all of the above, we, while living in California, we were forced to evacuate our home due to one of the huge wildfires. We watched as the smoke began to rise over the hills in front of our house. A day later ash piled on my vehicle and in the yard and on walkways. The air grew thick and smelled like a water-dampened campfire. Then we saw the sky turn orange and soon the flames reached into the sky above the golden, dry hills.

We loaded our valuables and important papers and fled to an area out of the evacuation zone. A former co-worker of Denene’s owns a very nice condo located in a city near where we lived and she gave us the key and told us to stay as long as we needed. We had no idea if our home would be standing when we returned. Fortunately, it was. The threat of fire continued throughout the entirety of last summer, with many communities near us being totally destroyed. People lost their lives, including firefighters.

The Hip

Meanwhile, my left hip was hurting, a lot. With each step it felt as if someone jabbed an ice pick into the bone. I visited my doctor who said it was bursitis. No exam, just an opinion. She gave me an injection. I saw no improvement and the pain grew much worse, to the point that I was limping like the Festus character on the old TV western, Gunsmoke.

I convinced my doctor to send me to a specialist who ordered x-rays. Again, a diagnosis of, “I don’t see anything work. Take Ibuprofen. It’ll pass.”

Well, it became far worse. I didn’t want to walk because it hurt so bad. Another doctor visit. No luck. Another x-ray. Nothing wrong, they said.

Then we moved to Delaware. Another extremely stressful point in our already turbulent lives. We moved to be closer to our family.

As soon as our health insurance went into effect I visited a nurse practitioner at the University of Delaware. She ordered x-rays and, wait for it, she learned that there’s absolutely no cartilage in my hip joint. It’s bone on bone with three bone spurs wedged between. She said she couldn’t imagine me dealing for so long with the pain this caused. She sent me to a hip specialist. He agreed. A total hip replacement was the only solution

My surgery is scheduled for this Thursday, January 3rd. Again, no cartilage in the joint. It was impossible for even a non medical person to look at the x-rays and not see this. But that’s the care we received from Kaiser Permanente in California. I must say, it was the worst I’ve ever seen. Denene, too, and she’d know since she been in the medical field her entire adult life, including managing hospital labs, teaching at medical universities, contributing to medical textbooks, and running clinical trials for drugs she and her teams developed that are now on the market.

The Move

As a result of our move to Delaware, Denene left a job she absolutely loved. So switching was a difficult choice to make. And there was the whole moving thing where it’s inevitable that belongings are lost or destroyed. Along with a move comes the stress of finding a house to purchase, selling the old home, and so on. We were lucky to have sold our sold our California home extremely quick and I credit that to a wonderful and extremely efficient Realtor, Phyllis Ballew, with Berkshire Hathaway. We found a really nice home here in Delaware, a place that’s in a state of chaos right now due to a large remodel project that includes a complete custom master bathroom re-do.

The contractor we selected for the bathroom job, after a serious search (we’re picky), is Delaware contractor R.A. (Ron) Barker. He and his crew are wonderfully meticulous down to the finest detail. Since I’m just hours away from hip surgery, having a new bathroom is essential. I think they’ll have it completed just in time. It’s a large space that required a ton of work and they’ve gone above and beyond to accommodate us. The room isn’t finished but already looks amazing.

Since I’m barely able to walk from one room to the other (I rely on a can I’ve named Virgil. Get it? Virgil Cane?) it’s practically killing me to not do some of the work myself. But it is what it is.

The Gratitude

I’ve shared all of this to express my deepest gratitude to each of you for the support you’ve shown for me and my family over the past several months. It’s been a tough year and I don’t know what we’d have done without your generosity and kindness. Believe me, I cherish your friendship.

You guys are the best and wish you all an extremely Happy New Year.

Again, thank you from the bottom of my heart!

 

 

It was a Christmas Eve when Denene, my wife for those of you who don’t know her, decided she’d like to ride along with me during my shift so we could at least spend a part of the night together. It would be her first and last in-person experience of what I did for a living.

I was the officer in charge of operations, the OIC, that night so it wasn’t as if I’d be responding to calls, meaning I thought the danger level for her would be extremely low. And I was right, the evening shift was fairly quiet with a few of the typical pushing and shoving drunks, a couple of thefts, a drunk driver or two, a peeping Tom, a disorderly customer at a convenience store, etc. Nothing major.

I took Denene on a tour of parts of the city she’d never seen and to a few she had, but only in the daytime. Believe me, some typically normal neighborhoods totally transform once the sun is down and all the “creepies” come out to play. It’s the time when neon lights replace sunshine and alleyways come alive with feral animals and people who pay for quickie sex behind dented dumpsters overflowing with restaurant waste and wet, slimy butcher shop cardboard and paper.

These are the streets and neighborhoods where wispy tendrils of sewer steam rise from storm drains to twist and writhe their way toward the night sky, floating and undulating until they melt into nothingness. Potholes are deep and overturned garbage cans are scattered about. Front yards are bare dirt and sofas and used kitchen chairs sit on front porches with leaning posts and broken railings. At the curb laying at either side of the streets are empty beer cans and bottles and used needles and condoms mixed with dry, crispy fall leaves.

In the area sometimes called “The Bottom, prostitutes display their wares in barely-there outfits while local businessmen, average Joes and sometimes Janes, and a few city officials cruise along the dark streets comparing the “merchandise.”

Winos and drug addicts begin their aimless marches, stumbling along cold concrete walks and streets until they finally decide upon a random landing spot in a storefront entrance where they smoke, drink rotgut liquor, or shoot poison into their arms or legs. Then they’ll sleep awhile before setting off on another quest for another high.

Drug runners, the low-level, bottom of the drug-selling chain, sellers of crack, meth, heroin, and weed, are at nearly every corner in the “hot” neighborhoods. Many times they damage the corner street lamps by throwing rocks at the bulbs, or by shooting them out, so they can operate in darkness to make it more difficult for cops to see them.

Runners stand alone or in small groups of three or so with each holding only a small amount of dope so not much will be lost should a cop bust them. Users cruise the areas in their cars, driving slowly. When the runner spots a customer he approaches the vehicle. The driver hands over cash ($20 for a single crack rock) and the runner offers the drug. Sometimes he keeps the foil or plastic-wrapped rock in his mouth so he could easily swallow it in case the “customer” is a cop. He’ll spit the wrapped rock into his hand to exchange for the cash.

When the runners sell out they head back to the dealers to “re-up.” The process repeats night after night after night. The runners are always at ready to take off should an officer approach. It’s a cat and mouse game that’s played again and again—we get out of our cars and they run. We chase. They drop the dope and an occasional gun. We pick up the stuff and maybe catch the guy or maybe not.

So after seeing enough of the rot of the city, I drove to areas where officers were on the scenes of various calls/complaints, making sure all was well. Then the radio crackled with an “officer needs assistance” call. She’d stopped a car for drunk driving and the driver refused to get out of his vehicle. She’d struggled with him a bit, through the car window, but had no luck. In fact, he’d spit at her and attempted to bite her. He’d struck her arms with his fist and tried to punch her face.

So off I went to see the trouble for myself. Other officers were on the way to assist. When Denene and I arrived two officers were at the driver’s window grabbing at the man and striking at his arms with batons. A third officer was standing at the passenger window preparing to break the glass. I told Denene I’d be right back (the equivalent to “Hold my beer”) and stepped out of my car.

Since I’d trained each of the on-scene” officers in defensive tactics during their time at the academy, and the fact that I owned my own gym and martial arts school, they assumed, correctly, that I’d handle this situation. So they parted to allow me access to the driver.

I told the wild and drunken and very large man that he had two immediate choices. One, remove his seat belt and get out of the car on his on. Two, I’d cause him intense pain while removing him from the car, through the window. When he spit at me it was my conclusion that he’d opted for choice number two.

A few seconds later, after inflicting quite a bit of pain (I knew this because he was squealing and squawking like a wounded animal), I pulled his fat rear end through the seatbelt and through the window (with his helpful assistance since he wanted the pain to stop sooner than asap), pulled him to the ground, spun him around and over using a wrist turn-out, and cuffed his hands behind his back.

I told the female officer who’d initially stopped the car to place my handcuffs in the box outside my office door when she’d cleared from processing the man. I then turned and walked back to my car where I nonchalantly asked Denene if she’d like to grab a cup of coffee. Only a minute or two had passed since I first stepped out.

She said, “How can you be so calm after such a violent event? And how in the world did you get that big man to fit through that window and all so quickly?”

I, like every officer out there, didn’t think twice about it. It’s what we/they do. It’s part of the job, like editing is to a writer.

Yes, it was Christmas Eve and we were together. But she never again rode with me.

She eventually stopped listening the police scanner I had at the house. She did so one night after hearing me tell other officers that “I’d go in first.”

Yeah, she’s much happier since writing about this stuff is a WHOLE lot safer …


Aikido

Aikido uses the attacker’s own force against him.

A wrist turnout applies intense pressure to the joint in the wrist, forcing the suspect off balance.

Proper grasp to begin the wrist turnout (Kotegaeshi Nage) technique. To complete the technique the officer maintains his grasp, rotates the suspect’s hand up and to the rear in a counter-clockwise motion while simultaneously stepping back with his (the officer) left leg. The suspect ends up on the floor on his back (see picture below). Any resistance inflcts excrutiating pain in the wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

Combative suspects are normally forced the ground for handcuffing. From this position, a quick turn of the suspect’s wrist and arm will force him to roll over on his stomach. Any resistance causes extreme pain and could severely injure the controlled wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

To effectively control the wrist, the elbow must be stationary. From this position, the suspect is easily handcuffed.

This wrist lock can cause intense pain in the wrist, the elbow, and the shoulder. Forward and downward pressure forces the suspect to the ground.

 

It was a cold January night back in 1975, a night when the temperatures dipped to the mid 20s. There were no clouds in the coal-black sky, but the overhead inky nothingness was peppered with thousands of tiny off-white dots—winking and flickering wintertime stars.

The victim, a fragile 88-year-old retired school teacher, Eva Jones, was in her modest home located less than a hundred yards, just short of a football field’s distance, from the local police department. She was at home alone, typical of most evenings, when the stranger forced his way through the front door.

Minutes later the elderly woman had been choked, raped, and robbed of $40 cash, all the money she had in her possession. Her attacker then slipped away as quickly as he’d arrived.

The old woman managed to get to her phone and dialed the number to summon police. When the dispatcher answered the call she heard a female voice gasping for breathe as she pleaded for help. Since the station was within sight of her home, officers arrived right away and found the partially-clad victim of the brutal assault.

Two hours later, after being transported to the hospital, Eva Jones was dead. Before she died, though, she told police that “a negro man had torn her clothes off and had choked her.” No further details. Just the man’s race. And then she was gone, leaving police with little—practically nothing—to help with their investigation.

During the next few days police questioned several men who’d been seen in the area, nearly two dozen, or so, but they were each cleared and sent on their way. Eventually, officers set their sights on a 32-year-old man, Curtis Jasper Moore, who’d been recently released from a psychiatric hospital.

Investigators interrogated the man for approximately six hours, nonstop, but Moore never, not once, admitted involvement in the murder of the woman. During the taped questioning, the man repeatedly hummed the theme song of a popular western television show. His mind and thoughts strayed from the matters at hand, and his statements were inconsistent. Some of his words, though, were taken as incriminatory.

So police took the man to the woman’s house—the scene of the murder—hoping the visit would illicit a confession. Again, some of his words, while confusing, were thought to be incriminating, including a couple of statements that seemed to indicate that he’d been inside the woman’s home on the night of the killing. That scant bit of “evidence” was enough for police officers who desperately wanted to close the case. Public and political pressure to do so, of course, was great. They arrested Moore for the murder and rape of the former educator.

A little over three years later, Curtis Moore, the severely mentally-challenged man, was convicted of murder, rape, and robbery and was sentenced to serve life in prison. His guilt was based almost entirely on the statements he’d made to police. There was no physical evidence that connected him to the murder scene. Due to his diminished mental capacity Moore was sent to a psychiatric hospital.

Court appointed attorneys filed state appeals on his behalf but all were denied. Next, a federal petition for a writ of habeas corpus was filed. It was only then when a U.S.  District Judge ordered the confession suppressed and set aside the conviction.

The judge ruled that the interrogation was improper because the man had not been offered the Miranda warning until after at least four hours of interrogation had passed. The judge also determined that the state was unable to prove that the man understood his rights after investigators finally got around to advising him.

It took a year and half after the judge’s ruling for the appeals court to affirm his decision, and when they did, finally, the man was released from prison pending a new trial. It was three years after his conviction that he was able to set foot outside of institutional walls.

Prosectors, with no evidence on which to rely, elected to not pursue the case and dismissed it..

Twenty-four years later, the governor of Virginia ordered testing of biological evidence that was found contained in the files of a recently deceased state crime analyst, Mary Jane Burton. Burton, for whatever reason, secretly taped small swatches of biological evidence—samples she used for blood typing—to her test sheets and then placed those sheets in her permanent hard-copy files.

The Burton evidence was discovered in 2001 when The Innocence Project requested all files on behalf of Marvin Anderson, a man convicted of rape. He fought and continued fighting to prove his innocence after his release from prison based on Burton’s saved/hidden evidence..

But saving bits of biological evidence was not the norm. Actually, by preserving the samples the examiner violated the lab protocol that all evidence was to be returned to the submitting agencies/investigators. However, by breaking department rules, the saved evidence samples were indeed tested per the order of the governor and the results produced were nothing short of stunning.

The rule-breaking, highly-meticulous Mary Jane Burton and I have a couple of loosely-based connections.

  • It was Mary Jane Burton who determined the identifying characteristics of biological evidence that would later convict Timothy Spencer, the serial killer known as The Southside Strangler. Spencer was the first person in the U.S. sentenced to death based on DNA evidence. I witnessed Spencer’s execution via electric chair.

Author Patricia Cornwell worked in the state lab at the same time as Burton. Dr. Marcella Fierro, the state’s chief medical examiner, a colleague of Burton was the inspiration for Cornwell’s character Kay Scarpetta. Dr. Fierro’s office conducted the autopsy on the bank robber I was forced to shoot and kill during a shootout beside a major interstate highway. Dr. Fierro and her assistant had dinner with Denene and me at the Commonwealth Club in Richmond, Va. the night Denene received her PhD.

  • In 2008, the evidence in the Jones murder case that was found in Burton’s file was submitted to the lab for DNA testing. The DNA tests proved that, without a doubt, the murder of Eva Jones could not have been committed by Curtis Jasper Moore.

 

Instead, the DNA was a solid match to a man named Thomas Pope Jr. Pope’s DNA was in the system because he’d been convicted of abduction and forcible sodomy in 1991. He was paroled in 2003.

 

My connection to Thomas Pope, Jr.? I’ve had the “pleasure” of investigating and arresting him a couple of times over the years, including for sexual assault (not in the same area as the Eva Jones murder, though). Unfortunately, at the time I arrested Pope his DNA had not yet been entered into CODIS. Somewhere in my files, I still have a copy of one of the Pope’s arrest warrants.

 

Curtis Jasper Moore didn’t live long enough to learn  that he’d been totally exonerated. He died in California in 2006.

 

The two officers who interrogated Moore have since passed away, as well. One committed suicide in the mid nineties. The other died of natural causes. Both were elected and served many years as sheriffs in Virginia.

 

On March 24, 2010, Thomas Pope,Jr., 55, was finally convicted of the rape and murder of Eva Jones, the retired, elderly school teacher. He was sentenced to life in prison.

I imagine Pope is currently residing in a state-run prison somewhere in Virginia after nearly and literally getting away with murder because two cops flirted with disaster by allowing tunnel vision and political pressure take over their investigation. And for taking advantage of an obviously mentally ill man.

 

There’s a current PC craze that’s attacking practically everything on the planet, from condemning anti-animal language, the lyrics of Christmas songs, and even the coloring of cartoon vegetables. So let’s poke around to see if we can find a few more horrible examples of politically incorrect Christmas tunes that could be offensive. Starting with …

I Want a Hippopotamus For Christmas

This lively tune opens with a discriminatory tone that’s sure to send other animals scurrying to their safe spaces. Here, see for yourself.

“I want a hippopotamus for Christmas
Only a hippopotamus will do.”

That’s blatant and out and out discrimination toward all other animals. And it only gets worse.

“Only a hippopotamus will do
No crocodiles, no rhinosaurus
I only likes hippopotamuses [sic]
And hippopotamuses [sic] like me, too.”

I see this one ending up in civil court where a softy judge will immediately order that crocs and rhinos must “do” as well.


Silver Bells

This song discriminates against the folks who live in rural areas. It’s also bullying to those who don’t have access to “holiday style” attire.

“City sidewalks, busy sidewalks
Dressed in holiday style”

Next, OMG, what about the feelings of grumpy people who don’t like smiling. Their right to frown as they wish have most certainly been trampled upon in this blatantly derogatory song.

“In the air
There’s a feeling
of Christmas
Children laughing
People passing
Meeting smile after smile
And on ev’ry street corner you’ll hear.”


The Christmas Song
Lyrics by Mel Torme

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping at your nose.”

Not fair. Not fair. Not fair. Jill Frost loves to nip at noses just as much as Jack. Why no mention of her playful nose-nibbling.

And, Mr. Mel Torme, what about the good folks over the age of 92 who’re now actively enjoying the one or two holiday songs left that we’re able to hear on our radios? Obvious age discrimination. Shame, shame and double shame.

“And so, I’m offering this
Simple phrase to kids from
One to ninety-two
Altho’ it’s been said many times
Many ways; “Merry Christmas to you”

Speaking of Mel Torme, dod you know he played drums? Well …


We Wish You A Merry Christmas

This one is appalling. What about bread and rice puddings? Why is figgy pudding given the nod in this popular tune? The dessert menu should be inclusive. Whomever is hiding behind the name “We” must be publicly shamed on social media. Dox them one and all!

“We wish you a Merry Christmas;
We wish you a Merry Christmas;
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin;
Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Oh, bring us a figgy pudding;
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding;
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer.”


Up on the Housetop
B.R. Hanby

Two words. Concealed Carry.

Climb down Onion Jenkins’ chimney if you want, but you can count on ole Onion to pop a cap in your red-suited rear end. Besides, it’s age discrimination to brings gifts to kids but not to the grown folks. And hey, why’re you bringing gifts to Onion’s kids, anyway? You don’t know them, you perv.

“Up on the housetop reindeer pause
Out jumps good old Santa Claus
Down thru the chimney with lots of toys
All for the little ones
Christmas joys” 


Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer
Irish Rovers

Here’s the one that sends me over the edge. This song is flat out evil, from promoting violence and death to outing poor grandma’s drinking problem. They even went so far as to call her out for her addiction to prescription medication. Yes, instead of helping the poor and pitiful old woman seek help for her medical issues, they sent her out into the snowy night where she was run down and killed by a careless reindeer.

“Grandma got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas eve.
You can say there’s no such thing as Santa,
But as for me and Grandpa, we believe.

She’d been drinkin’ too much egg nog,
And we’d begged her not to go.
But she’d left her medication,
So she stumbled out the door into the snow.”

To add insult to injury, knowing her state of mind and level of intoxication, they didn’t bother to check on grandma until the next morning when they found her frozen corpse in a snowbank.

“When they found her Christmas mornin’,
At the scene of the attack.
There were hoof prints on her forehead,
And incriminatin’ Claus marks on her back.”

Next we see Grandpa enter the picture. Doesn’t care a wit that his wife’s dead body is in a crumpled heap out on the front lawn, covered in snow with deer prints stamped into her skull. Instead, he’s partying with his cousin, Belle, the family “ho, ho, ho.” Now, I’m not one to spread gossip, but I’m thinking the perfect stocking stuffer for both Grandpa and Belle would be a couple of cans of Acme Incest Repellent. I’m just sayin’.

“Now were all so proud of Grandpa,
He’s been takin’ this so well.
See him in there watchin’ football,
Drinkin’ beer and playin’ cards with cousin Belle.”


*This piece is entirely non-PC and is intended as a tongue-in-cheek bit of weird humor. No hippos or grandmas were harmed during today’s writing. Cousin Belle, however, was immediately transported to the nearest Acme Rehab Center. Ho, ho, ho …

Our Thanksgiving trip south took us through the Harbor Tunnel in the Crab Cake Capitol of the World, Baltimore, Maryland (aka Bodymore, Murderland), and Washington D.C.

On the drive past D.C., the Washington Monument was slightly visible on the horizon. On the way back we were so close to it that we could almost count its bricks. As we drove through the area at a snail’s pace, I told Denene that I hoped the bumper-to-bumper barely moving traffic traveling in the opposite direction would ease up before our return trip. It did not.

By the way, in July of this year, the murder rate in Washington D.C. was up approximately 50%. Included in the 90 murdered at the midway part of the year was 10-year-old Makiyah Wilson, who was shot and killed in a quintuple shooting in Northeast D.C

Then came Northern Virginia where traffic moves at snail’s pace on a good day. But hey, the Commonwealth still boasts it’s for lovers. Tell that to the families of the victims killed in a state that can claim one of the highest murder rates in the country, per capita. In fact, in the 1990s, Richmond found its way to being ranked number two in the nation. As far back as 2012, there was a a 1 in 23 chance of being the victim of a crime if you lived in the city of Fredericksburg, Va.

I remember having to step across blood-soaked sidewalks to question suspects and witnesses in one Richmond housing complex. In fact, to simply question a man who had information about a stolen tractor trailer, well, we went in deep—several police officers and a K-9 unit just to be certain I’d make it to the front door and back. And that was in the middle of the day on a weekday. Weekends were worse, especially at night.

Anyway, next came our wonderful visit with family members. This Thanksgiving was the first opportunity in a long, long time that Denene and I had been together with all members of our immediate families. And, as many of you know, we have a lot to be thankful for this year.

While in the south we were reminded of things we’d left behind, such as cotton fields that stretched as far as the eyes could see.

And there were the BBQ restaurants featuring buffets piled high with black-eyed peas and stewed tomatoes, pigs feet and fatback, chicken livers, collard greens, homemade rolls and biscuits, and gallons of sweet tea.

On Thanksgiving day, among many other dishes, we feasted on smoked and fried turkey, corn fresh from the family farm, sweet potato casserole, country ham, and even homemade corn pudding, and a delicious chocolate chess pie baked by our daughter Ellen.

Since I’m not able to handle a lot of movement due to my failing and extremely painful hip joint (surgery is scheduled for January 3rd), my mother-in-law’s home was the center of all activity. My brother and his wife and Ellen and her family all visited with us there, in addition to Denene’s brothers’ families that now include several little ones (I received my very first lesson on how to make homemade “Slime” from a cute 7-year-old).

I cannot begin describe the intense warmness I felt in my heart when I saw both my mother-in-law and our daughter, two people who’ve faced terrific battles with cancer over the past year. And to have them prepare food for us and to see their smiles and to hear their laughter was nothing short of the miracle for which we’d all prayed.

Then came the time for our trip to end so we loaded the vehicle and made our way back through Richmond and Washington and Baltimore. The weather during the drive back was  not at all good. Raindrops the size of garden peas pelted and drilled at our vehicle the entire trip. Visibility was poor and for well over two solid hours we crawled along at no more than 20 mph.
There was a sea of brake lights in front and sea of headlights to the rear.

But we made it home safely. We even made it through Richmond, D.C., and Baltimore without seeing the first sign of gunfire.

Not a single bullet hole in our vehicle.

 

 

Here are answers to a few of the most often asked questions I receive regarding police and the work they do.

1. How do I become a local FBI homicide investigator?

Easy answer to this one. You can’t. The FBI doesn’t work local homicide cases; therefore, this three-letter federal agency does not employ homicide investigators for the cases in your hometowns. That’s the job of city, county, and state police.

2. How long does it take to become a detective?

Hmm … As “long as it takes” is a good response to this particular question. There is no set standard. It’s all about who’s the best person for the job. One person may be ready with as little as two years experience, while another may not be ready for a plainclothes assignment in, well, they may never be ready. The job of detective isn’t for everyone. Some officers prefer to work in patrol, or traffic, in the schools, or in the division that inspects taxi cabs and buses to be sure they’re in compliance with local law and standards.

3. Why didn’t you read that guy his rights before you handcuffed him? Aren’t you required to do so by law? Don’t you have to let him go now that someone knows you broke the law by not reading him his rights?

Miranda, first of all, is only required when (a) someone is in custody, and (b) prior to questioning. Therefore, if I don’t plan to ask any questions, and that’s often the case, I don’t have to spout off the “You have the right to remain silent” speech. So, no, not advising someone of Miranda is not a get out of jail free card.

4. Why do cops wear sunglasses?

Umm … because they’re constantly exposed to bright sunshine and the glasses help reduce glare and eyestrain.

5. I got a ticket for not wearing my seat belt, yet the USPS letter carrier in my neighborhood doesn’t wear his. How can they get away with breaking the law?

Most areas have laws that specifically address delivery drivers and similar professions—letter carriers, delivery services, police officers, firefighters, etc., whose jobs require them to be in and out of their vehicles throughout the business day. And, those laws typically excuses the driver(s) from mandatory seat belt laws while performing their jobs. However, many of these businesses and agencies require their drivers to wear safety belts when operating a vehicle.

6. Why are there so many sheriffs in my county?

I’ll start by saying there is only one sheriff per county. The rest of the folks you see wearing the uniform and star are deputies. A sheriff, the boss of the entire department, is elected by the people. He/she then appoints deputies to assist with the duties of the office—running the jail, courtroom security, serving papers, patrol, and criminal investigations, etc.

7. No, it’s not racial profiling to stop a purple man wearing a blue shirt and orange pants in a location near a bank that was just robbed by a purple man wearing a blue shirt and orange pants. That’s called good police work.

8. No, you do not have the right to see the radar unit, my gun, or what I’m writing in my notebook.

9. No, turning on your hazard lights does not give you the right to park in the fire lane in front of the grocery store.

10. Yes, I am concerned about your ability to fight well. Please understand, though, that this is what I do for a living, and they didn’t teach me to lose. Besides, I have a lot of loyal coworkers who’re on the way, right now, to see to it that the good guys win. So, Junior, Jr., you’re coming with me, one way or another.

11. You keep saying you know your rights … but you really don’t. Can you hear what you’re telling me?

12. Yes, no matter how much you hate me, my badge, and my uniform, I’ll still come running when/if you call, even if you punched me in the face the last time I saved your butt from the trouble you were in.


Today’s Mystery Shopper’s Corner

Since the holiday season is nearly here, I’ve decided to feature a few fun items for your mystery shopping needs and wants. I’ll post these regularly throughout the remaining weeks of 2018.

So, for day three of MSC, especially for those of you who’re shopping for writer friends who enjoy a bit of research and/or relaxation, here are my picks.

First up, 400 Things Cops Know
 


Show your support for the men and women in blue.


Dazzle your friends with gun cylinder pen and pencil holder/paper weight.


Finally, I thought I’d wrap up with a couple of books by Michael Connelly. Highly recommended reading material because he really does his cop homework. The story and characters ring true, and Bosch is a detective with whom I strongly relate.

Those of you who met Michael at the Writers’ Police Academy already know what nice and humble guy he is and those traits shine through in his style of writing. Bosch … not so humble, though.

Right to left – Michael Connelly, Denene, and me ~ Writers’ Police Academy.

 
Michael’s latest …

 
Finally, one of my favorites …
 

Has political correctness gone amuck in the world of cops and robbers?  After hearing this radio transmission, I’d say yes.

“Be on the Lookout for a morally challenged subject who’s a rube-esque prone repetitive exterminator of respirations and pulse. Subject described as follicularly challenged and metabolic phenomenon. Use caution. He is a person with flesh perforating corpuscle leaker.”

10-2. Morally Challenged Subject: Bad guy

10-3. Person of Unsavory Qualities: Crook

10-4. Understand Request/Statement: Okay

10-5. Residentially Challenged Individual/Displaced Homeowner: Homeless Person

10-6. Authenticity Challenged Subject: Insane Person

10-7. Exterminator of Respirations and Pulse: Murderer

10-8. Repetitive Exterminator of Respirations and Pulse : Serial killer

10-9. Rube-esque Prone: Redneck

10-10. Sexually-Focused Intelligence Gatherer: Peeping Tom

10-11. Mechanically Challenged Automobile: Disabled Vehicle

10-12. Intra-Species Diner: Cannibal

10-13. Living Impaired Upon Disembarkation: DOA (Dead on Arrival)

10-14. Aquatically Challenged Subject: Person Who’s Drowning 

10-15. Chemically Challenged/Inconvenienced: Drug Addict 

10-16. Life Inhibited: Dead

10-32. Person with Flesh Perforating Corpuscle Leaker: Man with Gun

10-33. Crisis Insistent Situation: Emergency

10-36. Appropriate Allotment on Chronograph: Correct Time

10-37. Involuntarily Terminated: Assassinated

10-38. Undocumented Apothecary: Drug Dealer

10-39. Undocumented Acquisitions Expert: Burglar

10-40. Temporary Guest of Government Housing: Prison/Jail Inmate

10-41. Wealth Redistribution Expert: Robber

10-42. Public Service Bonus: Kickback/Bribe

10-43. Population Control Expert: Mass Murderer

10-44. Unplanned Retrospection of Recent Meal Selections: Vomiting

10-45. Metabolic Phenomenon: Fat

10-88. Follicularly Challenged: Bald

10-100. Urgent Need to Eliminate Food and Drink Byproducts: Restroom Break

*Please remember that 10-Codes vary from one area to another. 10-4?

Also, let’s hope that neither of these goofy codes are in use, but these days, well, you never know what to expect. 

 

Police officers face many difficult challenges during the course of their careers, challenges most people would avoid at all costs. For example, exchanging a few rounds of live ammunition with a doped-up bad guy. Or how about working really long, odd hours, or the fear of losing everything you own, including your freedom, family, and possibly your life, should you make a bad decision in that fraction of a split second you have to make it.

And there’s this—the joy of being slapped, hit, punched, scratched, spit on, stabbed, cut, cursed at, having urine or feces thrown on you, puked on, bled on, wearing goofy clothing and heavy gear, and seeing people hurt, sick, and even die right front of you knowing there’s not a darn thing you can do about it.

The danger level of the job is extremely high and getting worse every day. All it takes is a couple visits to this blog on any given Friday to know how dangerous the job really is.

And then there’s the ever popular low pay, little time off, missing holiday time with your family (if you still have one), high suicide rate, alcoholism, drug abuse, fear of serious injury or death, and divorce.

Still, through all the pain and agony and odd baggage that’s attached to every police officer, there’s always someone out there who’ll agree to enter into relationships with the poor saps. And that’s a good thing, right? Well, not always, and there’s a secret I’d like to share with you, the writer. First we must address the fact that you guys don’t always get cop romances right.

Here’s why.

The Three “Romance” Categories of Fictional Cops

  1. The ones in relationships, the Hallmark movie/Nicholas Sparks-happy-ending kind of cop. Jonathan Kellerman’s Alex Delaware and  Robin Castagna come to mind, even though the partners sometimes experience and on-again-off-again sort of relationship. And there’s Faye Kellerman’s crime-solving duo Peter Decker, a lieutenant in the LAPD, and his Orthodox Jewish wife Rina Lazarus.
  2. The sad sacks who couldn’t hang on to a steady love interest if he/she were a conjoined twin. Little black dress-wearing Kinsey Millhone, bless her heart, well, the closest thing she had to a longterm relationship is with her dear landlord, 80-something Henry Pitts, a baker who spends his free time creating crossword puzzles.
  3. Then there’s the cop who’s so screwed up emotionally even mental hospitals lock their doors when they see him coming. The latter never finds true love, obviously, and remains a loner, stumbling through book after book after book. I’ll leave this one to your imaginations and personal favorites.

But there’s another kind of relationship, one that’s not really talked about in the world of fiction, and it’s definitely kept under wraps in the real world. But I’m spilling the beans, right here and right now. But you must swear to secrecy because, well … it’s a taboo topic!

We Tried to Warn Them!

Part of the exit speech we presented to new recruits leaving the police academy consisted of a few basic warnings about the potential career-ending temptations cops are sometimes faced with, like access to tons and tons of cash, drugs, alcohol, the fast life, prostitutes, abuse of power … and Badge Bunnies.

Badge bunnies? What the heck are badge bunnies? That was my reaction, too, when I first heard about them during the police academy superintendent’s “Welcome to the police officer family” speech during my last day at the police academy.

* Please don’t shoot the messenger. I’m not being sexist, just relaying some very real information. Of course this does work both ways. There are indeed male badge bunnies.

The term badge bunny is often defined as (from Urban Dictionary):

Badge Bunny: A female that goes out with only cops and firemen.

Badge Bunny: A female who enjoys “boinking” and actively pursuing sexual relationships with cops.

Badge Bunny: A female, usually of barely legal age, who spends her time chasing police officers, offering her “services” in hopes of gaining status among her badge bunny friends. (Yes, there are many cop groupies out there).

Badge Bunny Synonyms – holster sniffers, holster honeys, seat warmers, fender lizards, pig pals, beat babes. Cop wives refer to them by other names, such as whores, sluts, cause for divorce, and alimony bait.

New cops, the ones fresh out of the academy, are the officers who are most vulnerable to an attack from the vicious badge bunnies. They can’t help it, though. Recruits are young, good looking, and freshly toned from weeks and weeks of exercise and other training. They have shiny new equipment, sharply creased uniforms, tight haircuts, but more importantly, they have guns and badges! And they’re extremely naive.

Graduation day at the academy is like sending a pack of Roadrunners out into a world of Wile E. Coyotes. Badge Bunnies know the rookie’s weaknesses because they’ve studied the uniformed species for a very long time and they know how to cull the weak from the herd.

How does a badge bunny attack? They’re successful in various ways. For the sake of time and space I’ll list a few their deadly methods of operation.

  • The fake car breakdown, needing an officer’s assistance.
  • The fake prowler call, answering the door in a sexy outfit, or nothing at all.
  • The grocery store maneuver. You couldn’t reach the Special K even though you’re a good foot taller and eighty pounds heavier than the cop. Yeah, right.
  • Tapping the brake pedal repeatedly when they pass a target police car. The rookie officer sees the flashing brake lights each time the car passes his patrol car. Hmm, she must be signaling him. Is she in trouble? Or is she trouble …
  • Speeding, knowing she has all the ammo she needs to get out of the ticket.
  • Hanging out in cop bars.
  • Hanging out in restaurants, coffee shops, etc., frequented by graveyard shift cops.
  • Hanging out at sporting events, especially softball games played by cop teams.
  • Wearing tee shirts with logos that read, I Love Cops.
  • Establishing friendships with police dispatchers for the purpose of meeting their gun-toting coworkers.

Relationships with badge bunnies rarely last. In fact most of them rarely make it into the light of day. These are secret relationships—brief meetings, encounters, and … well, I’ll leave it at that. I know, your next question is, “Since part of the attraction is the uniform and the cool cop equipment, where do they meet for the clandestine ‘encounters?'” How about  …

  • patrol cars – inside and out (lots of things to hold onto – light bars, spotlights, handcuffs…)
  • surveillance vans
  • police station warehouses and property rooms
  • department offices
  • hotels
  • small airport runways (for the deputies working the rural areas)
  • wooded areas
  • industrial parks
  • SWAT vehicles

Well, you get the idea.

Some badge bunnies keep a scorecard and move on quickly to the next guy with a gun. Sometimes, but not often, the encounters turn into lasting relationships, with kids, nice homes, cute puppies, picket fences, and everything else that comes with a solid marriage.

I offered a brief statement to the recruits I trained when I was a field training officer. It went something like this, “Keep your gun in your holster and you won’t have to worry about shooting the wrong person.” Now, there were two messages there, right? However, rookies rarely listened to the hidden meaning.

I could practically read their thoughts the second I said those words, and I knew they wanted to say to me, “Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits.”

Screen Shot 2016-09-14 at 11.46.03 AM

Okay, so you’re a bit concerned that you may be experiencing a bit of badge-bunnyitis? Well, if you have any two of these symptoms, you should  steer clear of all police stations until the feelings pass.

  1. Like moths to a flame, you are attracted to bright and shiny things, especially badges and guns.
  2. You prefer handcuffs and leg irons over diamond bracelets and anklets.
  3. You often speed past police cars, pull over, and “assume the position” before the officer catches up to you … even if it’s the day of your wedding … to someone else.

 

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4.  In anticipation of a pat-down, you attach your apartment key to a weapon you’ve hidden beneath your clothing.

5.   911 to you is free access to phone sex.

6.  You often initiate high speed pursuits. However, it is you who’s doing the chasing.

7  The scent of gun oil is your preferred aphrodisiac.

8.  The sounds of leather creaking and keys jingling sends your heart into pitter-patter overdrive.

9.  Blue lights and sirens = foreplay.

10.  The phrase that makes your knees turn to jelly. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

* Obviously, this piece is intended as a tongue-in-cheek look at a situation that’s very real. In this article, though, I’m only referring to the bad bunnies—the scorekeepers. However, please know there are plenty of folks who are simply attracted to a certain kind of person, especially the men and women whose career choice includes wearing a uniform as part of their means to earn a living, and they are wonderful people who have wonderful, loving, meaningful and lasting relationships. The others, well …

 

For the second time in a short timeframe, my credit card information was stolen and used by dastardly crooks who used the numbers to make various purchases. The first time was for shopping sprees at a popular electronics outlet and a well-known clothing store.

I’m guessing there was a plot in play. A scheme that required the genius of Einstein and the well-honed plot-planning of Agatha Christie, or Jeffery Deaver. The latter, of course, is a plotter who strategizes over each and every word until every single letter and minute meticulous detail leads to the conclusion of his latest twisted tale.

Not a wasted word in a story crafted by either of those two, unlike what you’re currently reading here on this blog. I do tend to ramble, don’t I? Well, the reason I do is because when I was a small child back in the hills, where my father was a sharecropper and when our old mule, a feisty and stubborn beast who believed the command “stay” meant “go” and “plow” meant to “drink” … oops, there I go again.

Okay, back to the credit card thing …

I know this dastardly plot to be connivingly devious because, as a detective whose finely-sharpened crime-solving abilities once brought to justice the man who accidentally left his wallet and ID at the scene of a robbery, I recognized a couple of very important clues. I know, Sherlock has nothing on me.

Clue number one. The thieves first bought devices that could be used to play the soulful and romantic music of greats such as Barry White and Al Green, or perhaps the criminals’ turn-on-tastes were more along the lines of Enrique Iglesias or Teddy Pendergrass. My banker agreed and expressed those feelings to me during our cancel-my-card-and-issue-a-new-one phone call.

But, whatever those feel-good-musical leanings may have been, I believe they were the setup for part two of their operation. Their intended goal … dating sites. Their true destination and destiny. To find the love of their lives, even if it meant calling again and again and again, over and over and over, to a variety of numerical combinations and hotlines.

So, once again, my bank alerted me to the suspicious activity and asked that I immediately give them a call. And, once again we cancelled my card and the bank sent a new one. During our phone chat, the fraud department representative detailed several methods of ID protection that I should incorporate into my daily life. All were sound ideas, of course, including keeping my card in a safe place and out of the reach and hands of bad guys. Great information.

So they, the mysterious people behind the curtain of the bank’s fraud department, promised to overnight me a new card with instructions that I must sign for the package. It couldn’t be left on a doorstep. Again, this was after a sort of stern lecture as to how I could better protect myself from identity thieves (as if I don’t know). But I listened politely to the words I’ve spoken to many and various groups over the years, and to people whose fraud and identify theft cases I investigated.

And then I anxiously awaited the arrival of my shiny new credit card. During my wait, since we’re currently living in a hotel while waiting to close on the purchase of our new home, I wanted to be sure to pick up the card at the front desk before it had a chance to accidentally disappear into the deepest and darkest corners of an office supply closet or onto one of the housekeeping carts.

So I monitored the tracking information as the package made its way from the place where tiny hands stamped tiny numbers onto tiny pieces of plastic, to the shipping department, to the first package arrival station, to the next place, and the next, and then onto the delivery truck bound for our hotel.

Finally, the tracking message switched to “DELIVERED.” So I hopped onto the elevator and rode the speedy claustrophobic box down to the first floor where I approached the desk and requested my package. To my surprise, the assistant manager said that no parcel had arrived for me. So I waited for a moment, fully expecting a brown-suited delivery-person to jog through the front doors, as they do, always moving in fast-forward. But nothing.

So I hopped back onto the elevator, rode back up to my floor (this trip was far slower, by the way), where I again checked the progress of my package in case I’d misread or misinterpreted the message. Nope. DELIVERED was the message. Now, however, a memo was attached that read, “Left at front door.” Surely, I thought, the bank, who’d been so adamant about credit card security hadn’t given instructions to leave a credit card outside at a business address. They knew I was residing in a hotel and they’d demanded that someone receive it in person and noted so by having someone sign for it.

So back to the elevator, back to the lobby where the manager gave me side-to-side “no” shake of the head, and out the automatic front doors to see if I could locate a package that had been left outside at a busy hotel where guests streamed in and out like ants busy at whatever it is that busy ants do.

Nothing.

Back to the elevator, up to my floor and to my room. This time I called the office number of the brown-outfitted, jogging delivery folks. Yes, they told me, they’d left the package at my front door. But, I protested, the package required a signature and it had included my name, the name of the hotel, and my room number.

No, the woman told me, the package was merely labeled with my name and a street address. There were no signature requirements included.

So now my shiny new card, the one sent to me to replace the one whose number had been stolen and used for who knows what purposes at this point, was missing.

And then my cellphone rings. It’s the woman from the company of the brown-shirted delivery people. She knew the location of my credit card. She went on to say their driver left it on a doorstep at a private residence, and before I could blow my top she said she could lead me to the home of the STRANGERS who now possessed the shiny and new, plastic gateway into my finances.

Out I go, into the elevator, down to the lobby, past the assistant manager still shaking his head from side-to-side, out the whooshing, sliding front doors, and over to my vehicle, with the helpful lady from the brown-shirted delivery company still on the phone.

She tells me to drive first this way and then that, and then over there and right there, right in the curve is the house where my package lay resting on the front step. So I get out of my vehicle and walk past a group of chatting neighbors whose kids were screaming and crying and poking one another with fingers and short and skinny tree limbs, climbed those steps leading to the door belonging to people I didn’t know, and lo and behold there it was,  a package with my name and the address of the hotel plainly stamped on the label.

I nor my package were nowhere near the hotel.

I scooped up the cardboard envelope and knocked on the front to door to alert the residents that I wasn’t a mail-stealer and that they weren’t victims of package theft, but no one answered. So I passed back by the chatty neighbors who hadn’t batted an eyelash at the fact a stranger with California tags on his vehicle had just swiped a package from the porch of their next-door friends. The no-shirted dirty kids were still crying and still stick- and finger-poking as I pulled away from the curb.

Then it hit me … how was it possible that the helpful lady from the brown-shirted delivery company was able to guide me to my package with such pinpoint accuracy? And why was it that, in spite of giving me such a stern lecture about ID theft and protecting my credit card, the folks at the bank who mailed it did NOT include a notation of someone having to sign for the package and, why and how would a delivery driver simply drop off a package at an address that was nowhere near where it was supposed to go at an address that wasn’t even close either numerically or in spelling to the address for which it was designated?

So yeah, welcome to our new hometown, where both of vehicles have been dinged and dented and where not much has gone as it should, including today when we have tickets to a local college football game. A sold out venue where tickets are extremely hard to come by. Tickets that include VIP parking and a tailgate party.

Yeah, it’s raining …

Every job has its difficulties, and police work is no different. In fact, I don’t believe there’s another job in the entire world that offers more opportunities to screw up than a career in law enforcement. Think about it. What other business provides its employees with high-powered weapons and live ammunition, a car that you can drive like a $29-dollar-a-day rental, and permission to squirt hot pepper juice in someone’s eyes? The major problem with each these quirky, but super attractive perks is that they come with a slight disadvantage, the possibility of having to take a human life, or losing your own.

To further complicate the loss of life factor is the split-second decision-making cops are faced with as a part of their everyday routine.

A plumber’s plans are laid out for him—hot on the left, cold on the right, and crap doesn’t flow uphill. Mechanics rely on a little sing-songy phrase about which direction to turn a wrench—Lefty Loosey and Tighty Righty (turn the wrench to the left to remove the bolt, or turn it to the right to tighten it).

But cops often operate in a world of gray. There are no handy-dandy nursery rhymes to guide officers through their tours of duty. But wouldn’t it be great if there were such a thing—a happy verse or two  to help relieve some of the pressure.

You know, like …

Police K-9

Hickory, dickory, dock,

The crook pulled out a Glock.

The cop shot once,

The thug fell down.

Hickory, dickory, dock.


Hey diddle diddle,

The crook stole a fiddle,

The thief jumped over the fence,

The little cop laughed to see such fun,

When his dog caught up with the goon.


 

New Picture (3)

This old man, he was dumb,

He sold crack vials to a bum,

In a locked up, paddy wagon,

Throw away the key;

This dumb guy ain’t coming home.


How much crack could a crackhead smoke if a crackhead could smoke crack?


Georgie Porgie, a ped-o-phile,

Kissed the girls and made them cry,

When the boys came out to play,

Georgie Porgie lost his mind.


Jack and Sam Went Up the Street,

To sell a stolen gun.

Jack took off and ran away,

So Sam went pocket picking.


Jim Plott could smoke no pot

His wife could snort no coke.

And so betwixt the two of them

They both stayed free and clean.


Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,

Catch a robber by the toe.

When he hollers, take the dough,

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.


Here We Go Round the Gangster’s House

Here we go round the gangster’s house,

The gangster’s house,

The gangster’s house,

Here we go round the gangster’s house,

So early in the morning.

 

This is the way we kick their doors,

Kick their doors,

Kick their doors.

This is the way we kick their doors

So early in the morning.

 

This is the way we cuff their wrists,

Cuff their wrists,

Cuff their wrists.

This is the way we cuff their wrists,

So early in the morning.

 

This is the way we lock them up,

Lock them up,

Lock them up,

This is the way we lock them up,

So early in the morning.

 

Here we go round the streets again,

The streets again,

The streets again.

Here we go round the streets again,

So early in the morning.


Little Boy’n Blue, put on your vest,

The crook’s in the shadows, the gun’s in his hand.

Where is the cop who looks after your back?

He’s lying in the alley, barely alive.

Will you go back? Yes, you must,

For if you don’t, he’s sure to die.


Pease-porridge hot, Pease-porridge cold,

Pease-porridge in the pot, Nine days old;

Some liked it hot, left out to rot,

Some ate from the pot, died on the spot.

 

I know, I’m goofy …