“Okay, Mr. Carver?” said the highway patrolman. “I’m going to have to ask you to step out of your vehicle.”
“Show you my testicles?” I said, confused. “What are you doing outside, officer? Come in, come in! I’m no dope-sucking criminal with something to hide — you have free reign of my home. Unless you’ve come for my computer, in which case I’ll need to see a warrant. Can I get you something to drink?”
That’s when I realized I was behind the wheel of my trusty Hummer. Which was inexplicably parked in the middle of a rather dilapidated McDonald’s. The place was full of people, but instead of employees and customers, they were cops.
Next thing I know, I’m being booked for driving under the influence. Guess the 12 or so OxyContins I took this morning really crept right up on me.
Still, it’s bullshit. Sure, drinking and driving is bad, even if it is occasionally necessary. And driving with a head full of illegal drugs should never be tolerated. But to tell a man he can’t drive after taking prescription medicine, medicine he might very well need to stay alive? You might as well tell that man he can’t drive while breathing. And I’ll be goddamned if anyone’s going to tell me to suffocate myself just because I want to go for a drive.
At least, that’s the argument my attorneys’ll make when this nasty business goes before a judge in a few months. In the meantime, I’m off to pop some more Oxys. You know, to take the edge off.