Four years ago, I posted this picture anonymously to TFM:
Anybody can plainly see that something incredible is happening here. It’s a golf cart filled to the brim with boxes of Franzia with four police officers standing around it scratching their heads. They know it’s illegal; they just can’t figure out what to charge me with.
It’s taken me four years to figure out how to tell this story, which is unquestionably the greatest of my college career. I did some research, and it looks like we’re outside of the statute of limitations, so we should be good to go. See, what happened next is even crazier than the golf cart picture. You should know that, like every story from the trophy case, I got out of this situation completely free and in the clear. No tickets, no arrests, no impounded golf cart.
I was saved by Jesus.
Let me show you another picture, taken on the same day:
Grab a beer and blow off your classes. This is going to be one hell of a ride.
I could hear the screams and roar of the party from a quarter mile up the long road into the countryside. It was becoming painfully obvious that this thing had gotten way out of control. We had planned for maybe a hundred or two; nothing like the surging mob of a thousand strong howling for a guerrilla rager that was threatening to take down a beloved historical landmark at the edge of town. Dozens of police cruisers with flashing red and blue lights surrounded the chaos. Waves of officers prepared to sweep in from the periphery like a vengeful hurricane of overweight, middle-aged white guys inexplicably dressed like they were about to take down Osama Bin Laden. Arrests would be made today — that much was clear. How many life sentences would be doled out? That was still up to the courts.
For the first time in my life, I, cruising down the road in my electric golf chariot towards the chaos, was ready to admit I might be in over my head. I wanted to turn the cart around and run; let this mess play out on its own. However, I quickly remembered I was sitting on top of about 200 pounds of boxed wine in a vehicle that, despite a new engine and some sweet rims, could only do about 12 mph on a good day with the wind at her back. The cops had already seen me, and their cruisers would run me down in a heartbeat if I fled. So my best bet was to just keep on trucking towards the party’s epicenter.
A couple months prior, we’d thought it might be a good idea to put some big marine speakers on the back of the cart. At this moment, those speakers were blasting “Bicycle Race” by Queen. Every police officer turned in unison when I got near them, distracted momentarily from the prospect of pepper spraying drunk college kids in Winnie the Pooh onesies.
The girl sitting next to me was wearing a fox costume (it was 2013). She turned to me and said, “I think we’re fucked. They’re gonna grab us for furnishing.” Furnishing, or course, being the act of providing minors with alcohol.
I was frozen at the wheel. I couldn’t turn back. There was nowhere to go but forward.
I put the cart in gear.
“Are you crazy?!” Foxy screamed.
I turned up the speakers and stepped on the (electric) gas.
The cops just stood there with confused looks on their faces watching me cruise directly into the heart of the mob. My mind was a beautiful blank. It was the moment between too drunk and too stupid where you dangle on the edge of the impossible. A Hail Mary moment.
Several officers began approaching the cart after I stopped it just shy of the crowd.
“Son, what the hel—”
I whipped the keys out and hopped off. Foxy and I slipped into the maw of the crowd, hidden from the cops by a wall of blonde girls in togas and varying extreme states of emotion.
“What’s your plan here?” Foxy demanded.
“No plan,” I confessed. “To have a good time, I guess. There’s no way I’m getting out of this, but I’m always willing to trade the future for the present. Might as well enjoy the chaos while we’ve got it.”
I was lying, slightly. My real goal was to build up as much plausible deniability as possible. When I vacated my cart, the party began to strip boxes of wine off it instantaneously. Suddenly I wasn’t “supplying” the party anymore. Instead, they were stealing my alcohol from me. Surely that would get me out of a furnishing charge, right?
Yeah, it was a long shot.
Seeing the mob freshly reinforced with boxed wine, the officers finally kicked into gear and shut the party down. Two cops grabbed me and hauled me back to my cart.
“Is this your golf cart? Are you aware that people are taking alcohol off your vehicle?”
I played my stupidest, sweetest dumb face.
“No, officer! Should I press charges? Can you help me get it back?”
The cop was stunned. He was about to say something; something that probably began with the words “you have the right to remain silent,” when he stopped cold.
A miracle was happening behind him.
Jesus had appeared. He was holding a cell phone and yelling at the unit commander and the assembled mass of officers and squad cars.
“This is police brutality, man! I’m filming this! This is police brutality!”
One by one, the cops dropped what they were doing and moved to surround Jesus.
“The Meek will inherit the Earth! Blessed are the Peacemakers!” Jesus kept yelling.
“Sir, you need to calm down—”
Jesus continued shouting wildly. The rest of the party realized what was happening and began to escape in large groups, fleeing the scene of the crime(s). The cops slowly clocked the movement behind them and started to turn away from Jesus towards the runaway partygoers.
But Jesus wasn’t done.
“I have coke! Coke in my bag! I’m on bath salts!” he screamed like a choir boy.
“If you confess something like that, I’m going to have to arrest you!” the unit commander yelled back.
“Fuck you! Fuck the pigs! I have drugs in my bag!”
The cops descended on Jesus, their full attention focused on arresting the Messiah. This allowed the final stragglers from the party to escape. The cop holding my ID handed it back to me.
“Stay out of trouble,” he mumbled.
I watched the mass of law enforcement absorb Jesus. He turned towards me, a serene smile on his face, and call me crazy, but I swear I heard him whisper:
“Go, my children…”
Then the batons came out and our savior was on the ground. I shot the man one final nod.
He made the ultimate sacrifice.
And that’s the story of how Jesus saved me from getting a massive furnishing charge. It’s real, it’s all true, and it’s something I will remember for the rest of my life. It’s proof to me that there really is something out there, something greater and more mysterious than we can ever hope to understand. And for some reason, I got a major pass that day.
And absolutely trashed that night. Count your blessings, my friends..
Images via Megan Campbell/The Daily Barometer