Saturday – mercifully – ended my day work tour. I had been waking up at 5am every morning so I could stretch out my wretched back for a half hour. It’s the only way I could put on my clothes without help.
Mere minutes after I sat down at my desk, Diego the Idiot Detective waddled in, carrying a covered bowl. He announced, “Hey guys, if you’re hungry, I brought in a bowl of brisket!”
The time was 7am. Who. The. F**k. Is. Eating. Brisket. At. Seven. AM?
Since none of us are unemployable alcoholics or stayed awake the entire evening, we all declined.
The tour was rather uneventful: no shootings, no robberies, and it rained most of the day. (The thugs don’t like the rain.) I was able to catch up on my work, relax a bit, and watch some college football.
At about noon, Diego walked into the kitchen, brought out the bowl, and placed it on his desk. He opened the lid and told everyone they can dig in. When he said this, I was walking to the kitchen to grab something to drink. I wish I hadn’t.
Diego walked down the aisle toward me, holding a large piece of brisket in his chubby hand, and chewing on it as he walked. He looked like Dan Aykroyd in Trading Places eating the stolen salmon while riding the bus…
As he passed me, I said, “Diego what the F**K are you doing?” He replied, “I’m eating brisket. Want some?”
In twenty-six years of policing, I have seen almost every type of violent, stomach-churning incidents you can imagine: homicides, suicides, hangings, decapitations, and people struck by Acela trains. None of those were more sickening than seeing Diego gnaw on a giant piece of brisket.
No plate, no utensils, just one dullard harkening back to his Neanderthal roots.
The good news is everyone on the floor shared my assessment, and no one wanted to be anywhere near Diego and his chew toy. I don’t remember ever trying brisket, but now, I can assure you, I never will