Like most college students, a little alcohol makes me lose my shit. I’ve found myself hitting on strangers, admitting secrets, and even trying to ride a hamster (okay, so maybe that last one isn’t so common).
To be honest, most of my favorite memories are the result of being completely plastered. This past weekend, however, I encountered a whole new type of drunken shenanigans: I was chased by the police.
It all started at around four o’clock in the morning. I was feeling a nice buzz from some raspberry-flavored Mike’s Hard Lemonades (don’t judge my fruity drinks). Nearly passing out on a lawn chair with a gnome up my butt, I decided it was time to head home.
Since the party wasn’t that far away from my dorm, I figured I’d simply walk back. Well, it ended up being more of a stumble. I kept tripping over myself like I was wearing stripper boots.
As I crossed one of the busier streets, I noticed a nearby police car turn on its sirens. I didn’t think much of it. In fact, I didn’t think at all; to avoid confrontation, I jumped into a bush.
Next thing I remember is a deep, intense scream that pierced through the sirens; making me nearly soil myself. To my surprise, the cop got out of his car and started running toward me.
In fear, I screamed back at him. I turned to run away, but another police car swerved in front of me; driving over the sidewalk to form a barricade. Feeling the excitement, I pretended I was in a Die Hard movie and attempted drunken somersaults.
One of the officers pulled out his gun and told me to get down on my knees. Still completely shit-faced, all I did was giggle at his dirty remark. A second cop, using stealthy ninja prowess, snuck up from behind and handcuffed me.
I knelt on the side of the road and watched car after car pass by. Why were so many people on the road at four in the morning? Each passerby made eye contact with me, giving me a look of pity as if I’d escaped from Guantanamo Bay or something.
Completely confused; I turned back to the cops and said, “Ohio has some shitty underage drinking laws.” Shit. Cover blown.
Yet another officer approached me (I swear I had my own SWAT team). He assured me that if I cooperated, he’d let me go. I still didn’t know what I did.
I remember thinking the cop was cute (in a 35-year-old-hot-dad-with-a-long-nightstick kind of way). He looked like his name was Damon, so that’s what I kept calling him.
Damon asked me if he could perform a strip search. I found it adorable, and somewhat kinky, that he asked for my permission.
He went through my pockets (God yes), discovering a Lady Gaga keychain and some crayons from Applebee’s (this is, perhaps, more embarrassing than my choice of alcohol). Damon pulled out his walkie-talkie and exclaimed with a laugh, “There’s no way this guy is a serious threat.”
Soon after, the cops uncuffed me and left. It was over in a blur (and not because I blacked out). To my disbelief, no one apologized for the mishap — not even my future husband Damon. Sigh.
At first, I was outraged, but then I realized no one caught my underage drunkenness (my fruity raspberry breath paid off, eh?).
Being drunk prevented me from doing something stupid and getting killed (somebody put that in a PSA).
When I woke up (which was probably two days later), I called my mother and told her everything. Outraged, she called the police station and demanded answers.
The chief told her that I was apprehended because I fit the description of some nut job who was running around that night with a knife. And by “fit the description,” I was simply a Caucasian male with khaki pants.
This is offensive, because, although yes, I am definitely a cracker, I was not wearing khaki pants that night. Khaki pants make my butt look saggy.
He also told my mom that I looked suspicious because I jumped into a bush. Well FUCK. There’s absolutely no appreciation for nature lovers anymore.