Getting a Speeding Ticket...

is a bad time to woo a woman.

I was on a first date with a gal. First dates are one of those rare times where the intense feelings of nervousness and anxiety must be channeled into abnormal amounts of charm and smoothness. Girls assume guys will be on their best behavior on a first date. So if a guy uses a salad fork at the wrong time or uses a tiny swear word in casual dialogue, the girl assumes he is irreparably boorish and foul-mouthed. Romantic first impressions are everything.

We were driving up 101 heading to the restaurant. I was multitasking in the car: trying to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants, looking suave while driving, keeping the radio on songs that show my taste in music, and engaging her in stimulating conversation.

And then, flickering blue and red light flooded the cabin of my car.

"God dammit. Crappy popo." Oops. First date. Ah well, she'll understand.

The officer strolled up to my window. "You know what you did wrong back there?" It was like a human talking to a dog.

"Yeah. Speeding." Just give me my ticket and let me go. Of all the bad times to be emasculated and toyed with. I have a first date riding shotgun, and she gets to see me dominated by another man.

He was a tall CHP officer. I wished he was one of those fat officers, so at least I would look physically fit in comparison. But of course he was buff. Tall. Sunglasses. Giant man hands.

"Caught you doing 75." Really? That's actually not that fast considering my mind was more on her legs than the road.

He moved in closer to take my license and registration. His crotch was right on my nose. He was so close, I could smell his zipper. It was like my first day in prison, and he was my cellmate. What a charming image for my lovely date, who by now was noticing the tears of anger and regret filling the corners of my eyes.

After he had his way with me, he condescendingly tapped his palm on the roof of my car and said, "Try driving more slow, sir." More slowly, dumbass.

I felt a conquered "Yes, sir" leak through the gaps of my teeth clenched by hatred.

I pulled back into traffic, ears flushed red with rage and frustration. Silk shirt tie-dyed with sweat. "God dammit," I muttered. Then I remembered I had elegant company in the car.

I turned to her. "Sorry. I just hate cops."

"My dad's a cop." Of course he is.

Guess how Saturday night dinner went.