(Driving near rich people can get expensive)

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Here’s a question that’s been troubling me: if a cop pulls over one of Google’s driver-less cars for speeding, and the non-existent driver makes a run for it, how long will it be before Al Sharpton shows up and starts yelling about systemic racism?

A few months ago, I got pulled over for speeding on a residential road near my house. In fact, over the last twenty years I’ve only reeled in two traffic tickets, and both of them were on this same street. (By the way, this is also the same road on which, before dawn a month ago, I totaled my car after running into two – yes, two – illegally parked vehicles. But my therapist advises me not to talk about that yet. Not to mention my parole officer.)

You’d think by now I’d start avoiding that street, or maybe buy a horse. But no. Two traffic violations and a car-killing collision later, and I still frequent a road that obviously hates me. I believe this is what Al Sharpton would call systemic stupidity. Yes, you’re right…that would require galactic amounts of irony, but in a universe where Bruce Jenner can out himself, believe me, we’ve got irony to spare.

The road that hates me is a hilly, tree-lined route that runs through a tony bulge of insanely-priced real estate known locally as Thornblade, an ancient Cherokee word meaning “gated Lexus sanctuary.” Thornblade is a place where wildly rich people gather to complain about how hard it is to find hired help that can make a good crème brûlée. (Crème brûlée is an ancient Cherokee phrase meaning “diabetes.”)

I got my speeding ticket in mid-afternoon, rolling through Thornblade on the way home from the grocery. I came over a hill and there he was: an officer of the law, standing in the street and pointing one of those high-school-principal megaphones at me. It was a radar gun, deployed in a tactical maneuver known locally as a Speed Trap, an ancient Cherokee phrase meaning “foolproof cash generator.”

My reaction was instantaneous, subtle, and mature: I slammed on the brakes like a twelve-year-old truant. As my decelerating car lurched left, I surveyed the area. This speed trap had become a virtual gold mine for the local constabulary. Three or four police cars, idling on the nearest side road, and an ad hoc steno pool of officers, scribbling away on that dreaded tear-off blue paper pad as fast as they could scribble. There was literally a line of cars, waiting for their turn, as if some side street entrepreneur had suddenly started selling sausage biscuits.

So, I was busted. And since I am a usually law-abiding patriot, I stubbed out my crack pipe, safetyed the AK-47, threw my suicide vest over the martini, and eased to a stop.

“Sir, you were going 47 in a 30 mile per hour zone.”

I nodded sheepishly, although I’ve never actually seen a sheep nod. I tried crying, but for some reason it didn’t sway the officer, possibly because I don’t have breasts. So I accepted my fate and inched my car to the back of the sausage biscuit line.

And then, the verdict. Remember, I haven’t had to pay a traffic fine in years. Have you gotten a speeding ticket lately?

Ready? ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY-FIVE DOLLARS! Not including the biscuit!

Sheesh. And you thought inflation just applied to groceries, or Donald Trump’s ego. You realize how many Kindle copies of my book I’d have to move at $3.99 each to come up with $185.00? Like, twenty, or something.

Nearly two hundred bucks, for driving fast near diabetic rich people. Heck, if I’d known crime was gonna run to numbers like that, I’d’ve gone ahead and shot somebody, too.

Enough of this. I’m moving to Baltimore, where the mayor condones crime.

Then I thought: You know, rather than just pay the fine now, I think I’ll wait for the court date on this one. I’ve never stood before a judge, so it’ll be a new experience; besides, I’ve heard that you sometimes can get the fine lowered just by appearing at court, if the judge is in a good mood, or you’re Al Capone, or you have breasts.

Hmm. Wonder what I should wear?

I’ll ask Bruce Jenner.