Butthole Surfer

Illustration by Bob AulTo the bottom-sniffing cop: you stopped me on my way out of a bar—a woman alone driving out of a parking lot at night—on what you called "suspicion of driving under the influence." Your probable cause? I hadn't turned on my headlights all the way. But when I blew three times into your Breathalyzer and failed to show up as intoxicated, you threw me into your patrol car, took me to the station, locked me in an interrogation room, told me to drop my dress and snapped on a rubber glove. When I refused, you threatened to lock me up for the night. I stupidly complied—who would think a real-life cop could be corrupt? You stuck your finger in my ass. I was humiliated. When I asked what you were looking for, you said drugs, and then joked that you'd found my brain. Laugh it up, funny boy: my new attorney has since told me that you violated several laws, a few of them punishable with prison time. He's drafting the letter to your city manager now. Enjoy your early retirement from the force.

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