Racketeering

Ah, yes. It's fall. That splederous time of year when NFL is on teevee, the leaves are turning all those awesome colors, and the annual smog check and registration for my truck is due. The time where I give more of my hard earned cash to the state.

I usually go to the little smog check shack a mile or so away from my work. Now let me take a pause here and describe the area. The shack is in the parking lot of a little strip mall adjacent to one of the major streets in town. This street is a 6 lane road running parallel to one of the main runways of the international airport. Quite busy during the day, but not so much during the off hours. The smog shack is on the side of the street opposite the airport, but - let's just say a well hit golf ball could clear the fence around the airport, but no way it could hit an airplane.

So I goes pulling in to the little shack in the parking lot, whereupon Mr. Beer Belly wanders around and says most politely "What can I do for you?".
"Time for the sniff test I guess" says I.
From there the conversation goes something like this:

Mr. Beer Belly: Man, I can't believe how nice it is out here today.

Curmudgeon: Yeah, gorgeous. Good golfing weather.

Mr. Beer Belly: (Chuckle) I got my ass ripped by a cop one day.

Curmudgeon: Oh?

Mr. Beer Belly: Yeah, I got here like, an hour and a half early one day. I have a little square of turf in the shack here (holding arms up as if to give a demonstration of the size) and some old balls and my seven iron in the trunk. No traffic on the street so I thought I would go ahead and hit a few practice balls over towards the fence there. (Pointing toward the fence which surrounds the airport on the other side of the street).

Mr. Beer Belly: So I was swinging away and the cop pulls up and parks right there (extending index finger) in that spot.
He comes over and tells me "Now I was watching you through the binoculars from that hill over there, seeing you hit golf balls, and I ain't even going to start on how many laws you're breaking here.
"But the worst part is besides being a lousy golfer, I had to watch your big, white belly pop out from under your shirt every time you hit a ball.
"So, no more hitting balls, okay?"

Curmudgeon: (Boistrous laughter). What? He didn't even offer up any pointers?

Mr. Beer Belly: Nope. Not a one.

Curmudgeon: Well, that wasn't very friendly of him.

Mr. Beer Belly: Alright. You're all set sir.

Curmudgeon: Thanks. See you next year.

Oh, the mental images.