Wow! What service.

The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. The rear passenger-side window of my car is smashed and my golf clubs are missing. It’s going to be another beautiful day.
I whistle a sweet little tune all the way to the police station. I think it’s a little ditty by Ice Cube. I’m not quite sure though. There’s no better feeling than going to write a police report.
I’ve had the privilege of filling out two now that I’ve moved to the Battlefords in the past nine months.
I enter the police station and am greeted by a nasty fellow. He takes my name four times, but I love seeing the incompetence of the cops. It makes me feel really safe. My heart gets that warm feeling like when you’re getting a hug from a loved one.
I know spelling A-A-R-O-N L-U-T-Z is a pretty hard task when you have someone two feet away spelling it for you, so I don’t give him any flak.
I sit down, report in hand, and start filling it out. Not being a police report virgin, I know what to do. I fill out times, places, what’s been taken. I blow through the incident in no time. I’m proud of my detailed description of the event.
I hand the form back. Well, I wait 15 minutes before I’m helped again. This time by a bitchy lady. I’m guess she’s having a rough morning. Her car window was probably smashed too. I let her mean disposition slide.
If the cops can’t find something from my explanation, I doubt they ever will.
That doubt is really non-existent though. The fine police of the Battlefords work 24/7 trying to keep the streets safe for their citizens.
I see them patrolling around from BPs for dinner to Tim Hortons for coffee all the time. I know they’re out working the beat swinging their billy clubs around, keeping crime in check and making sure criminals get what they deserve.
I’m looking forward to the day when a constable shows up at my apartment door with golf clubs in hand.
I’ll give him a great big hug, invite him in for a drink and he’ll tell stories of stupid bad guys who think they can get away with petty theft.
Who the hell am I kidding? The only person who is going to get me a new set of golf clubs is me. My clubs weren’t worth enough to get insurance to cover the cost even with the price tag on the smashed window. Stupid $500 deductible.
They were a nice set. A present from my dad. I was actually planning on having a good golfing season this year too.
I’ve been out twice in the past two weeks. Two more times out and I’ll have tied my record of four rounds of golf.
Crime doesn’t pay. In the Battlefords it sure does. It pays great, plus you have no chance of getting caught as long as you stay away from Timmy’s.
I felt safer in downtown Calgary than I do on the streets of North Battleford.
I have no faith in the police force here. I don’t know what it takes to be a cop in this city, but it can’t be too much.
You don’t need to spell, catch criminals, recover stolen goods or make the average person feel safe. You don’t even need to be pleasant to victims.
I guess you just need the love for doughnuts. Jelly filled, cream filled, bear claws, long johns, sprinkled, glazed, plain, powdered doughnuts.
Now I remember that song I was humming. It was Ice Cube on the Family Values CD. The title was Fuck, Fuck, Fuck the Police.
Now I have the task of finding a replacement window for my car. And guess what? There’s nothing in the Battlefords. Hell, there’s nothing in the province of Saskatchewan.
A new rear driver-side window has to be shipped in from Winnipeg.
I think the glass dealers are on the same service program as the police department.