Detox

I don’t have to let you go because I didn’t read you your rights. I’m not interrogating you. You’re not under arrest. You’re in protective custody because you’re so drunk, you’re gaining more ground sideways than you are forward. If the sidewalk was built in a zig-zag pattern I wouldn’t have to worry about you falling into the street, but it’s not, it’s straight.

You obviously don’t know you have the right to remain silent. You also have the right to not repeat every police cliche you’ve ever heard. I know you’re going to sue me, you’re going to have my badge, you’re going to have my job, you want your phone call, and you want to talk to a lawyer right now. It’s a 20 minute ride to the detox center, can you add a little filler to the cliche loop you’re stuck in, it’s getting old.

Obviously you don’t appreciate the fact that I probably saved you from getting mugged, or at the very least, from having a phallic symbol drawn on your face with permanent marker after you passed out behind the Burger King. Luckily for me, my job satisfaction isn’t based solely on the gratitude of those I help. I’ll be expecting to get served with papers any day now, and to tell you the truth, I’ll be disappointed if it doesn’t happen.

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