My Run-In With Police. For the Record.
For the record, just so I can make this clear to all you hoes (and rakes), I was imprisoned. Briefly. But they couldn't do anything to me. Oh, they might have thought I'd killed some chickens by smacking them against the grille of my car and then given them to Chick-Fil-A to feed the unsuspecting public, they might have thought I was running my own little whorehouse in my basement, they might have thought that if I didn't have a whorehouse in my basement, then surely I was keeping innocent Russian boys chained and bound with leather for my own amusement, they might even have thought I was sending the chief of police a bunch of pizzas he never ordered.
But instead, they had to release me, because they didn't have enough evidence. Of anything.
Imagine their faces when they realized I hadn't actually been drinking and they had to let me go.
Yeah. I know. Sweet.
But instead, they had to release me, because they didn't have enough evidence. Of anything.
Imagine their faces when they realized I hadn't actually been drinking and they had to let me go.
Yeah. I know. Sweet.