I am in Virginia at the moment, whereabouts undisclosed, on a covert mission that may or may not be related to a certain basketball tournament that happens each year in America in March. I must not disclose my whereabouts. I cannot let this state find me.
We have some history, me and Virginia, and not the good kind. We’ve gone at it once or twice. Twice, actually. There were two incidents.
When you drive into this particular Commonwealth, or at least when you drove into it in 2016, perhaps on your way from Asheville to the District of Columbia (not an NIT mission that time, just seeing the sights), there are/were signs saying Virginia is for lovers. There are/were not signs saying that Virginia has an outrageous reckless driving law they will enforce giddily, their hearts full of evil. Had those signs existed, I would not have been allegedly going 82 in a 70 down in Dinwiddie County when I allegedly happened to pass a predatory officer of said predatory law. He didn’t tell me about the law when he handed me my paperwork. He just told me that there was a court date, and that I didn’t have to come.
Fearing God and being good in a few other respects as well, I hadn’t before received a speeding ticket. But I thought the court date thing was odd. So at the next rest stop, I looked more closely, and I was alarmed to find I’d been charged with a misdemeanor. The lamest misdemeanor possible. I could have stolen $999 worth of pancake mix. Ugh.
Anyway, Virginia has a fucked up law saying you can’t drive 80 miles per hour anywhere in the state, regardless of what the speed limit is and whether or not you’re listening to Hot Fuss. It’s a racket, because the way you respond to it, or at least the way I responded, was to go get my speedometer calibrated (the speedometer had actually been overstating my speed, unfortunately for me and how cool I felt driving fast), and when that failed to hire a lawyer who got the court to let me do an eight-hour online traffic school (not sure I should disclose this but I finished that bad boy in six-forty five, mostly in a Holiday Inn Express in Idaho Falls) in exchange for the thing being dismissed, or whatever the word was. I don’t know, go look it up. Probably public record. Anyway, big racket. Unjust law. Not a fan of Virginia.
The second incident was when I missed a flight out of Roanoke on a Sunday morning in 2018 because Roanoke didn’t realize they had anybody flying out that morning and neglected to staff the TSA line adequately (I was there an hour early at a five-gate airport, I’m not taking the heat for this one), and in expressing my displeasure with…I think it was United but I’ll say allegedly United to keep us in the clear, and in expressing my displeasure with allegedly-United’s decision to not hold the flight for the dozens of us hollering at them from the other side of TSA to hold the flight (allegedly-American held their own flight), got security called on me by a gate agent whose name I won’t besmirch here no matter how severely said gate agent’s name deserves to be besmirched. (I remember you, buddy. I remember.) My offense there? Said “What the hell.” Again, did not get my money’s worth. I could’ve at least dropped an f-bomb. Maybe could’ve called the guy a mean name. Anyway again, yes, that was the day I challenged Aaron Carter’s score at the Greensboro Celebration Station red course.
So, I don’t know what’s going to happen this week. Outside of the D.C. metro, those were the only times I’ve been in Virginia in the last twenty years. 100% rate of running afoul of dumb rules and/or laws. Definitely going to collide with these shitheads again. But this time, I’m getting my money’s worth.
didn’t know you were a bad boy. i like that