Ration

I think I should get a ration of “You got what you deserved” cards that I can throw down when it’s appropriate.  I’d love to have one a shift, but I know that’s not realistic.  I even understand the argument against one a week.  But one a month seems legit.

Let’s say you call 911 because you want to report a theft.  You tell dispatch that your car was just broken into.  I show up and you tell me someone stole your GPS, purse, and laptop.  You proceed to tell me your GPS was suction cupped to the windshield, your purse was on the front seat, your laptop was in plain view, your car was parked on the street, and it was unlocked.  There’s only one week left in the month, so I promptly hand you my January “You got what you deserved” card and drive away.

Let’s say you call 911 because you want to report a burglary.  You tell dispatch someone just broke into your house and made off with your property.  I arrive and you show me how they kicked in the man-door to your garage.  You show me how they busted open the door from the garage into your kitchen.  You show me how they forced open the door from the hallway into your medical marijuana grow room.  I whip out my February “You got what you deserved” card so fast you don’t even have time to say, “Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuude,” before I’m out the door.

Let’s say you call 911 because you got your ass kicked.  You tell dispatch a bunch of guys at the bar beat you up.  I show up and see that you have a chin-strap beard, over-jelled hair, uneven orange self-tanned skin, manicured nails, and enough gold chains to make Mr. T jealous.  I don’t even say a word to you before handing you March’s “You got what you deserved” card and high-five the guys responsible on the way out.

Step on the brake, Jake.  I’ll never hand this card to a woman who’s wearing a short skirt, tight blouse, yoga pants, low cut jeans, or drinking too much.  That card will stay firmly entrenched in my pocket as I do everything in my power to make you suffer.  I’ll visit you in prison and watch you slowly lower yourself onto the metal stool on the other side of the cold steel table.  I’ll watch you sit gingerly, and grimace as the weight of your body rests on your backside.  That’s when I’ll take out April’s “You got what you deserved” card and slide it across the table without saying a word, and leave.

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