In every chapter, there’s a need for risk management. The cops always seem to want something to do with us, even when we want nothing to do with them. It’s like a bunch of bees being attracted to the proverbial, beer-filled, music-blasting pot of honey. For the brother with the odious task of talking to them, or for that poor guy pissing in the wrong place at the wrong time, life is hell. Here’s a handy translation guide to use for the brothers in question, and for those around them trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
There 500 or more shitfaced people behind this door, and if I open it at least 5 of them will literally fall out of the house.
We bought enough booze to cover the liquor store’s expenses for the next three years. There is a throne of 30 racks in the kitchen.
Tony Montana would suggest we seek drug counseling. We have enough shit in this house to open a pharmacy.
Ten minutes ago I let in a girl that showed me her high school ID card.
I am a pledge.
I’m not going to jail, so I’m pawning this off on the alcoholic juggernaut that is our risk management chair.
I’m not coming back. Get the dogs and the battering rams, because we’re fortifying our position and getting as shitfaced as possible before you return with a warrant.
There are 500 people stacked on top of each other, hiding in the basement. Some of them are probably inside of others. You’ll hear them, potentially, but you can’t go down there without a warrant. Please ignore the 10 empty kegs in the kitchen and the now empty containers of jungle juice.
You just watched me piss on your patrol car and acquaint my face intimately with the sidewalk. My piss is 60 proof at this very moment.
…because I’ll fail them all, and you and I both know it.
Try and chase me down, motherfucker. I run faster than those doughnuts.
Here’s hoping all your interactions with the police end without a taser to the back and handcuffs. If not, remember the golden rule: don’t let the pre-law brother near the cops. He’ll only make it worse.