They're coming to take him away, Ha-Haaa

Today we got a phone call from the FRATERNAL ORDER OF POLICE.

When the phone rang, a Nowell son answered and kindly told the sweet officer on the other end of the line, "Yes. I'll get my Dad."

When the phone reached Mike, he was stuffing his face with a leftover quesadilla and a bucket of salsa. He claimed to young son, through full mouth, "I can't come the phone right now"* and popped the phone over to hands-free mode.

The person, now loudly entering the room through speakerphone, was just going to town based on the script he'd been given to read. I mean, we came in mid-sentence, and this guy didn't even seem to notice us.

About six words in, Mike got impatient with the whole thing and hung up the phone. The interaction between son and Mike was just priceless:

Son: "You just hung up on the POLICE!"**

Mike, channeling Archie Bunker, "Yeah? Well that's why I pay my taxes!"***

Son exited the room, trying to figure out the connection between hanging up on an officer of the law and taxes. He was also clearly disgusted that his Father was going to end up in jail for being rude to the Dallas PD.

Mike continued on, to me, "I hate those phone calls. If they really need the money, they should raise my taxes. I pay enough already." Blah, blah, blah.

I, personally, was waiting for the doorbell to ring, and a search warrant announcement to be made.

I looked up and said, "Honey. You and I disagree on this one. Always have."

Mike retorted, with a look of slight surprise, because half of the things I say are at a frequency so low that they aren't even heard, "Why would you want to give good money when we already pay them through OUR TAXES?"

"For me, it's simple. I want the little sticker they'll send that is my 'fly down Hillcrest when I'm late for carpool pick-up, get out of ticket free'. You know, the one the officer says 'I see you've contributed this year' about?"

Mike, now as disgusted at me as son is at him. "Oh, sure. It's all about you."

Darn right, it is. I drive about a million miles a year. I need protection. And I want my sticker.

Next time, dear son of mine, please bring the phone to Mommy.

And don't answer that ringing doorbell.




*After which, he asks "Who is it". Thank goodness the roof of the house wasn't on fire.

**This is blasphemy to a sub-10 year old.