Being a housewife, I watch soap operas. Actually, just one soap — General Hospital.
So the other day I was watching the show. Lucky Spencer is a cop, and he’s in the hospital (Frank always asks if anything actually happens at a hospital, and the answer is yes). Lucky hurt his back shortly after his partner was killed in a shootout. So now Lucky’s self-medicating to the point that they took away his morphine drip and he only gets his super happy pills. And he thinks he saw his wife in a cozy conversation with this cad doctor (Rick Springfield’s son) who hits on all the women, married or no. Lucky didn’t actually see Elizabeth in a cozy conversation, but he’s wacked out, so there’s no telling him that.
Ok, so Lucky’s brother Nicholas walked into Lucky’s hospital room and saw Lucky loading rounds into the magazine of his semi-automatic pistol. The pistol was sitting on the bed.
NICHOLAS: Lucky, what are you doing? Where did you get that gun?
LUCKY: It’s my service revolver.
I laughed a long while.
Just remember: if you take enough happy pills, everything revolves.
Frank, if she has time to watch soaps, she has time to get another job.
The truly sad part is that I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard some actual cop on TV describe his pissy little slide-gun as a “service revolver.” D.C. cops, in particular, were guilty of this regularly when I was unlucky enough to live in Arlington, the Outskirts of Hell.
Sadly, the state of cop familiarity with weapons is such that many of them have never seen a real gun in their lives before joining the force, which accounts for their deplorable performance in many cases, and for their willingness to accept slide-guns instead of REAL ones that guarantee you six shots even if you’re wrestling with a perp or rolling in the mud.
As a fourth-generation member of a cop family (even my mother was Head Jailer), I earned the right to urinate upon the profession when it has its collective head up its ass, which is, alas, much of the time. Any group that can use the phrase “A Buick, yellow in color ….” with a straight face deserves some contempt. As opposed to yellow in smell? Taste? Sound? Ye Gods.
End of rant. Disregard the reports — Deputy Phyffe is alive and well.