Cop Talk

By Robert Granger

The Gauntlet’s legal department (thanks, Paul; we’ll drop off your fuzzy little you-know-what after your wife goes you-know-where for some hot and spicy ugly-bumping) has been kind enough to liaise with a veteran member of the Calgary Civic Police Force. We present to you Constable Harry Cox, who we’ll accompany during the early portion of his night shift every month or so to give an uncensored, uncut account of the exciting trials and tribulations of the elite of our fair city’s officers. Oh, by the way: we’ll translate Constable Cox’s exceedingly verbose copspeak into plain English for you. Enjoy!

Cox, 8:43 p.m.: We’re currently en route to the Calgary International Airport from whence have arisen preliminary reports of an explosive device being covertly concealed somewhere within the facility. The bomb squad has thus been informed accordingly, and my duties at this time consist predominantly of aiding in dispensation of crowd control in addition to, if need be, evacuation of the premises in question, should safety protocols be so inclined.

Translation: Some 13-year-old stuck a clock in a shoe box, dropped it in a bathroom in the terminal, and called the cops for a laugh with his prepubescent buddies. I’m going to act tough, tell everyone to stay behind the yellow police tape and wheel the seniors working at Tim Hortons so they’ll give me some doughnuts because I haven’t eaten for half an hour now.

Cox, 8:59 p.m.: Well, we’ve arrived at our destination, and there appears to be quite a scene developing. There’s a massive horde of innocent bystanders spectating the events occurring immediately subsequent to the bomb threat, and the majority of them are at this time vocalizing their concerns. I’ll be physically exiting the motor vehicle at present, making my way through the crowd to obtain the recognition of the commanding officer, and executing any and all orders he may bestow upon me. I perceive the situation to be confusing and potentially time-consuming.

Translation: Crap. I’m stuck here for who knows how long, and I was supposed to meet Candy at Humpty’s in Victoria Park for a little 311 at 9:30. Well, I’m gonna go kiss the Captain’s ass now and hope he doesn’t make me babysit these jackass rubbernecking peon civilians for too long.

Cox, 9:32 p.m.: I’ve been instructed to continue my usual rounds of patrol due to the detection of the absence of any explosive ordnance. Although my help is no longer necessitated on the premises, I feel that the presence of such an agitated populace consumed by their own morbid curiosities can undermine the efficiency and the effectiveness of the bomb squad–those who risk their own lives to save the lives of others.

Translation: Damn, I’m glad that’s over. You have to be a smooth-talking suck-up like me to get out of a rookie job like that. Now maybe these idiots will be able to take their economy-class seats to Timbuktu and stay the hell out of my face because all that goddamned whining and pant-pissing was getting on my nerves. Hopefully, some cool shit will happen now, like a hostage-taking or even a car jack, but I doubt it.

Cox, 10:47 p.m.: Dispatch has just informed me of a domestic disturbance in progress in the Harvest Hills area. We’re proceeding there immediately, code 2.

You know, son, it’s a real shame how commonplace domestic abuse is. You may not be aware of it, but the expression "rule of thumb" actually stems from an old law of not being able to beat your husband with high heels longer than a thumb’s length. Deplorable.

We’ve arrived at the residence, and we can perceive signs of a dispute just outside. There are a couple of shattered windows, the front door is ripped off its hinges and the incinerated carpet is a definite sign… let’s see if we can sort this out like civilized human beings.

Translation: The place: suburban Calgary. The stars: a drunken construction worker and his annoying wife who makes Roseanne look like Miss America. Supporting cast: me, an honest man trying to make an honest living, in the role of Sigmund Freud doing emotional housekeeping because she won’t put out when he’s drunk and he won’t listen to her "feelings." Although this would be much more quickly (and entertainingly) resolved by a swift blow to the groin, the Chief said he’d can my fat ass if I got into police brutality trouble again, so I’d better pretend to give half a shit and get them to at least fight a little more quietly.


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