Bike Cops Suck

How many of you guys live in Knoxville?

I'd say since 99% of the people who read this blog probably know me, or been in homicide rehabilitation classes with me, a lot of you DO live in Knoxville.

Well if you do, and you visit Downtown a lot, you probably know all about the little cop guys on bicycles. Basically, what it appears to me is that there are kids out there who really want to be cops. These little guys seem to have just graduated high school, and they're thirsty for blood-letting action.

Unfortunately, since they're mostly 18 years old, they probably won't be hanging off the back of any hijacked semi tractor trailer trucks, firing their guns at bad guys and killer robots anytime soon. At least for a few years, I think.

They DO, however, have some mace, I think. If you piss them off, their freckled faces and teeth full of braces might whip that chemical out at you and lay down some hurtin' bombs. (This seems perfectly lucid to me, since I just read in the latest Field and Stream that pepper spray works awesome against most grizzly bears.)

At any rate, these little guys race all over downtown on their bicycles, and occasional golf cart. This golf cart thing is hilarious. The key is to check out the look on their faces: completely serious, as if they're on their way to make a huge cocaine bust and take down the local kingpin of crime. The reality is that this little blue-and-white-painted battery-powered death machine is the most awesomely dorky thing I've ever seen. The best part is when they ride in the golf cart while wearing helmets. Man, those helmets rule.

They cruise around their city, patrolling for evil-doers. If, by evil-doers I mean cars who have parked too close to the curb, trucks that have been parked in a loading zone for more than 15 minutes and the most horrifying bastards of all: cars parked at an expired parking meter.

It was the latter that got me this week. I was in a downtown loft shooting photography for a home feature in the magazine, and I chose to park in the most inconspicuous spot in the Old City I could find. I filled that thing up with quarters, grabbed 50 pounds worth of photography gear and walked all the way to the Jackson Building.

As we finished up the shoot, I noticed my watch telling me that my time was about to expire on the meter. I grabbed up the gear and started hustling towards the door, hopefully in time to get to the truck before one of those parking meter Nazis discovered me.

Sure enough, rounding the corner, I could see my truck off in the distance... and a fucking bike cop standing right next to it. By my watch, I had a minute or so on the meter... enough time for me to make it, surely. As I rushed along, I could see him reading my license plate, whipping out the little orange ticket pad, and writing me up. I tried to yell, but I was way too far away. He looked down and saw me... I waved... he got back on his little bicycle and rode off like a total pussy.

Now this kind of thing really pisses me off. I'd paid for an entire morning, at least 3 and a half hours, and I get a ticket in the final minute of my meter time.

Bike Cop, if you're out there reading this: dude, you fucking suck.

Readers, if you plan on visiting our fair city and enjoy the downtown life, be on the lookout for one of these teenage-looking, fat ass, useless wastes of space sons of bitches with their little bright blue uniforms and neon-orange ticket pads. If you see one, be sure to stop and tell them what a great service they provide to our city.

But don't take it too personally, Bike Cop. Your mustache might not be fully grown out yet, you might not be doing 300 mph down Gay Street... shooting a shotgun with one hand at a meth-peddling cyborg villain holding the city hostage, but you've got one helluva cool golf cart.

Ride that golf cart to glory, you mighty son of a bitch.

Or at least until the battery runs out.

-M