Sting Would Be Ashamed

Okay, here's some more Keystone Kops antics to keep you chuckling. (At me? Heaven forfend.)

I think I mentioned that right before Christmas, my dad and I went to my local precinct to report a case of grand larceny (that's the worst case of grand larceny I've ever seen! Take two Cipro and call me in the morning. Ahem.) that the bitch who stole my wallet perpetrated in the Bronx. The Astoria cops said, well, since the crime was committed in Precinct X, and we're Precinct Y, you'll have to go up to Precinct X and file the report there. As I had an audition later that afternoon, and neither of us had the smoggiest idea where Precinct X was, we asked Precinct Y to fax our material there. They complied, we spoke to Precinct Y, they told us they were on it. End of Act One.

Act Two, Scene 1. My dad calls Precinct X to find out the status of our report--like, did they give us a case number, for starters. Ummm...let's see. Rustling of paper, checking in system. Well, you know, Mr. Karla's Dad, it's the damndest thing, but...we kind of sort of "misplaced" your report. Oh, I know! It's terrible, and we are so. Sorry. Ummm...would you mind coming up here and filing the report in person...? (I'm imagining that big goofy oops-I-fucked-up-but-don't-shoot-me grin Homer Simpson got on his face that time he was heckling Ned Flanders at the Little League game and then Flanders made Homer the coach to teach him a lesson.)

Act Two, Scene Two. Dad and I hire a car, since we have no idea where this place is, to take us to Precinct X. We tell an admin assistant that we're here to file a report. She actually remembers the case, but she tells us she cannot take the report herself, as Grand Larceny is one of the seven major crimes that must be filed directly with an officer. Okay so far, but the sarge-in-charge is not there that day, as he worked till midnight the night before. Can we come back tomorrow? As we sit there, mouths agape, another officer comes over. She's very nice, very together. She asks us where the crime took place, asks me where I live. Tells us, okay, since you live in Precinct Y, that's where you have to file the report. But...but...butbutbut...? I know, says the officer. Tell them to look on page 35 of the General Police Procedures Manual (or whatever it's called); it'll tell them you have to file the report in your precinct of residence. Have a nice day.

If I weren't so exhausted by this whole melodrama, I'd be more amused at the way the NYPD is playing Hot Potato with the jurisdiction on this case. I picture a cop from Precinct X saying to a cop from Precinct Y, "You," and the cop from Precinct Y responding, "No, you." "No, YOU!" "No, no, no, YOU!" "No, I insist--YOU!" and so on. Or perhaps it would look more like, "I ain't touchin' it." "Well, I ain't touchin' it neither." "Ain't my job to touch it--you touch it." "Bitch, I SAID I ain't touchin' it! Talk to the hand!"

Moral of the story, kids--don't carry your wallet in...oh, never mind.