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Police: Woman Tried to Assault Cop With Sex Toy

Headlines like this always promise a story that, face it, will be a bit… odd.

Police say a dine-and-dash turned into assault charges for an Illinois woman who allegedly walked out on her bill at a restaurant and then attempted to strike a cop with a “clear, rigid feminine pleasure device,” according to police reports obtained by AOL News.

Wow.  That’s never good.  Little disappointed by AOL’s coverage of this story – nowhere do they get into her motivation, her feelings, and what she expected to be the outcome resulting from her actions.  I want to know this lady better (not in the carnal sense – I have standards).

A responding officer scoured the area and spotted a woman matching the perp’s description lying on a plot of grass near the Six Flags Great America amusement park.

When informed that she must either pay the bill or face arrest, Bildsten allegedly told the officer that she wasn’t carrying any money but had cash at home.

[At her home] Bildsten “said her money was in her dresser drawer and she opened it and reached inside and removed a ‘clear, rigid feminine pleasure device’ and held it over her head and approached the officer in a threatening manner,” according to a statement issued by the Gurnee Police Department.

Few things are as utterly terrifying as having a large caliber dildo brandished at you from overhead. Ignore it at your peril… it’s like the Schlong of Damocles or something like that.

“The officer knocked the device out of the way prior to being struck and placed the woman under arrest,” the statement continued.

Let’s be honest, there are a lot of things that could have been much worse, but do the cops ever envision these moments when they make their career choice?

Bildsten was charged with theft of labor for allegedly walking out on the restaurant bill, pedestrian under the influence for walking on city streets while inebriated, and aggravated assault for menacing the officer with a sex toy.

Perhaps she’ll get off with good behavior.

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If enough people say “That’s a risk we’re willing to take” then they do indeed need to get rid of the scanners.  Gov’t does not call the shots, as much as they’d like to believe.

I find that being full-body groped ( I was in Florida ) to be ridiculous since I don’t even remotely fit a terrorist profile, and I don’t like the all-body scanner.  Target those that fit the profile and stop being a bunch of pinheads.  Be discerning.

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Note:  I accidentally deleted this posting.  It had some great comments which I will reconstruct tomorrow.  So sorry.

In order to work out some stuff with insurance I had to drive way out – way way out on the other side of Detroit this morning.

Got lost.  Got really lost.  Well, actually I knew where I was every time except when I was where I needed to be.  I was very nearly late.

I’m looking at my map and trying to spot something that looked even close to my destination and when I look up there’s flashing lights in my rearview mirror.  It was Death, sitting astride his pale horse.

I pointed to the next side street and pulled in.

Death left his steed idling at the curb and floated up to my window.

I said “Geez, I sure hope you can help me find this place because I’m totally lost,” stabbing my finger at my map animatedly.  Now, as you already know that wasn’t quite true because I knew where I wasn’t supposed to be which was where I was – I just couldn’t get to where I wasn’t.  So technically I wasn’t lost.  Moving right along…

In his most professional Grim Reaper expression the officer, who we’ll call Officer Thanatos, said “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I thought furiously for a moment and then said to myself “Nope, I got nuthin’.

“No sir, I don’t.”

Officer Thanatos then said “You blew through a red light.  That’s bad.”

Ruh-roh!  That IS bad!!!

“Geez, I’m really sorry, Sir – I am just totally lost.”

“Give me your license, proof of insurance, and registration, Sir.” said Thanatos in a chill yet sort of lifelike voice.

I fumbled for my glovebox and snatched up the documents, then threw my license into the pile, and handed it all to him.  “I call.”

No, I didn’t say that, but my brain did, inside where brain things happen inside my head.  Why would I think about poker at a time like this… hell, I don’t know.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Be right here, Sir!” I chirped.

Note:  This is exactly the sort of situation that always ended badly for me in high school – my brain would signal to my mouth to say something and because my mouth doesn’t actually have a brain it just went along with the suggestion, leading to visits with my pal, the principal, and later to some horrific form of dire punishment.

He came back a few minutes later, but meanwhile I called Cruel Wife who laughed evilly at my predicament.  I hung up, as there was no sympathy to be had there.  It was her first day on her new job and she wasn’t going to let anything take away that warm fuzzy feeling.

“Sir, I’m going to give you a warning on the moving violation but I’m going to have to…”

Ok, stop right there.  No utterance by a police officer ever went well when it contained “sorry” and “but” in the same sentence.  Never.  Not once.

“… write you up for no proof of insurance and no vehicle registration.”

“Uh, OK… What???

Thanatos grimaced, which is hard to imagine but a death’s head can actually grimace, and said “Your insurance card is expired and your registration doesn’t match your plate.”

RUH-ROH!

Well, there just isn’t much you can say to that.  Arguing with Death never amounted to much.

Soooooo… I thanked Death profusely for not giving me a moving violation and sat there numbly as he gave me directions to the place where I wasn’t but which I also desperately needed to be since where I was wasn’t doing me any good whatsoever.

As usual, many passers-by slowed down to watch Death administer the last rites, sealing me to my fate.  Which was OK because really my mind was already where I wasn’t but knew that I had to be.  I made it to my destination with one minute to spare.

And the morning went downhill from there.  But that’s another story which I probably won’t tell anyway.

It just occurred to me that perhaps I ought to make some phone calls tomorrow to rectify the documentation problem.

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Hmmmph.

Yes, Cruel Wife… I know it is 7:30.  I know it is time to get up.  Give me a few more minutes, K?

Yes, Cruel Wife, don’t yell, I know it is 8:05.  Thanks.  A few more minutes, all right.

Yes, Cruel Wife I know it is… WHAT???  It’s TEN TO NINE?  WHYDIDN’TYOUSAYSOMETHING?  I’m LATE.

Followed by a 17 second shower, shave (half the face – the left half), shirt-shoes-socks-pants-tie, remove socks and shoes and put on socks first, pants go on the bottom half… brush teeth… yech, what’s that new toothpaste… neosporin?  In the truck, backing up, forget the tree because trees can be replaced, onto the highway, and it’s off to work at a high rate of speed.  At work by ten.

Late, but no one cared. Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  If I were on fire there’d be no one in the world who’d pee on me to put the flames out.  Glad to have run over senior citizens getting to work on time.

Work.  Translate complex assembly to spreadsheet format so we can track our errors to the grave, after they have been discovered.  Lunch… three New York Peppermint Patties (ok, five).  Dessert… another pot of coffee.

5pm.  Need to leave by 5:30 to get home by 6:30 at the latest to care for the kids whilst Cruel Wife sells cooking utensils to a bunch of chain-smoking blue-hair ladies with knit shawls that look like they were made out of cat fur yarn but really are just shawls coated in cat fur.   Thing is, the odds are against them serving kool-aid spiked with LSD, which is kind of a bummer considering how these things go – discussions about bowel movements, perms, the price of bananas, and that cute young man running for president… what’s his name?  Oh yes, John McCain.  Glad it’s her doing these things.

Driving down the freeway to the back-road route home.  Doing 77mph.  Sun’s in your face and just staying between the lines gives you the firsthand knowledge of what an ant must feel like under a hot sun and magnifying glass – your brain sizzles quietly to the sound of screaming retinas.  A hand held up doesn’t help the glare through the bug spattered windshield but that doesn’t matter – they’re really just there to take your mind off of the spiderweb cracks.

Look in the rear-view mirror on the off-ramp and realize that the blue car is a state trooper – and it dawns on you that the sound you hear is the siren.  Shit, he’s not passing you, he’s on your tail.  Locking the brakes and wrenching the wheel to the side is a time proven manner of impressing the cops so it seems like it is warranted here.  Thirty feet of shredded smoking rubber later your vehicle comes to a shuddering stop in a cloud of petroleum toxins.

The trooper edges up to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door.  He looks agitated.  He looks angry.  And he definitely does not look like he has a sense of humor – either on the job or off it.  Perhaps it was crushed when he was a child.  We just don’t know.  Without preamble the trooper submits a request for proof of insurance and registration and it is here that you sense that there will be no banter, no witty repartee, no friendly camaraderie.

A quick fumble through the glove box and frantic examination of the official-looking card confirms that your proof of insurance card is a year old because the new one is right where it belongs – on the desk at home, where it can’t get lost.  The officer is granted access to the proof of insurance card – gotta hold back that registration because of the shaky hands thing going on.  One baby step at a time.  Don’t show fear.  They can smell fear you know…

Sudden flash of insight… When asked if he had the siren on for a while he answers through clenched teeth “Yes.”   Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  Insight #2:  The open window and rushing air is enough to cause one’s hearing aids to clamp down on the outside noise – all outside noise.  Showing the officer the hearing aids helps his composure, and the groveling part can never hurt.  Much.  Hard to fake microelectronics on spur of the moment.

Officer reaches into the glovebox, pushing the heroin kit and baggies of weed aside so he can get at the registration.  It’s wet because of the spilled beer on the dash, but still readable.  He takes all the personal information and politely requests a small powwow back at his vehicle.  If the officer wishes to palaver at his mode of transportation who are you to argue? First thing you notice is that the guy could be your younger brother, by about ten years, perhaps your son.  Ok, so that has you off balance.  Like you weren’t already.

Lots of questions are thrown out.   Where do you work? [Insert Town Name].   What do you do? Aerospace Engineer. How long have you worked there? Ten years.  Ten long years.  Ten long heart wrenching goddamned years.  Ten years of … oh.  You don’t want to hear that, do you? You have hearing aids. (Not a question, that.)   Huh?  Yeah. You read lips? Hell yes.  But the only reason I couldn’t hear you with the aids was that they can cut out on you like when I had the window down.  What’s that?  My WINDOW TINT? Window tint has to go. No shit? No shit. Hell yeah, I can get rid of it.  No problem. Officer gives long look.  Long long look, suddenly mentions how his dad has a hearing aid and a cochlear implant.  Does he like them? The officer says Nah, not the hearing aid, he says it makes things sound like shitYou laugh a bit hysterically, over the top for the situation. Yeah, they work better than the old box kind though.

After the conversation comes to a close, we hug for a few seconds, he gets in his car and drives off.

Driving home.  20 mph under the speed limit.  Suspicion is that the cop was going to nail some ass to a wall for speeding but has opted to give an early Christmas present.  Scraping tint is a whole lot cheaper than a ticket.  Spot two more sunny-weather patrol cars out working on a tan and boosting township revenue.

Home.  Home crap home. Kids nowhere to be seen, dog chewing on dress shoe.  Cruel Wife jumps up, grabs tools of her trade and says “Good luck with the kids” and runs out the door.  The kids, hearing the door and noting that they did not exchange goodbye grief-rituals begin rending garments and gnashing teeth… followed by hysterical wails and blubbery weeping.  Dog switches to left dress shoe.  Cruel Wife runs back in for a happy reunion quickly followed by a second attack of separation anxiety from the youngest child, Destructo-Boy.  Defib paddles sorted the problem out.  Dog forcibly removed from shoes.

Boy on back of couch, removed forcibly.  Boy activates ice dispenser with no glass.  Boy writes all over face with pen.  Boy is discovered a few minutes later around the corner with the dish sponge in his mouth, sucking on it.  Boy spends 20 minutes making weird faces with mouth and looking like he wants to retch. Two very long hours pass with endless permutations of the Boy’s antics described above and it is time for bed.  Toothbrushes are apparently sorted not by color, or size, or by image printed on the handle but by how worn the bristles look.  Check.  Write that down:  GirlHead insists that brushes sorted by bristle wear.  Must’ve missed that in the Book of Good Parenting (which I do not own).   Bedtime stories  – Frog and Toad and The Cat in the Hat.  Boy falls asleep in your lap and the location of his elbow explains why there is no feeling whatsoever anywhere in your groin anymore.   GirlHead tries the Little Girl Smile of Smiting and rolls a critical hit – daddy does not get a saving throw.

Lights go out. Time for a bowl of chili, loads of cayenne pepper, pepper jack cheese, and mustard.

Time for House…

Thus endeth a day in the life of the Lemur King.

Note:  I really was late for work.  No one cared.  No lunch, just chocolate mints.  I really did get pulled over.  No heroin, weed, or beer was anywhere near my truck or me at any time.  I did not hug the officer goodbye.  Yes the pup chews on my shoes while I am wearing on them.  It’s kind of affectionate. Yes, the boy put a days-old used dish sponge in his mouth.

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Update:  I like my kids and I have a hard time understanding the Nebraska Dump-Your-Kid-Off-No-Questions-Asked Law (Safe Haven Act).   Pretty damn pathetic if you ask me.  Then again, I don’t know the kids either.  Usually though, the acorn don’t fall far from the tree.

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