A friend wrote this yesterday on Facebook…
While walking on 4th Street between A and B in the East Village today, I was karate-chopped in the chest by a tall, muscular man who appeared to be a crazy ex-vet. Fine, no biggie. But as I’d just passed a police van a few blocks south, I felt it was my civic duty to let them know there was a big crazy man karate-chopping people on the street. So I backtracked, knocked on their window and told them as much. See something, say something, right? I was in the middle of giving them a physical description of the guy when, lo and behold, he comes walking up the street, shouting at the top of his lungs. “There he is,” I said. “Looks like I delivered him to you.” The cops said they had it from there, so I left them to talk to big crazy man and walked in the opposite direction. About halfway down the block, I turn around to see what’s happening, and I see the cop car’s brake lights go on, wheels turn and then drive off. I guess they didn’t want to be bothered with the situation. Easier for them to give out tickets to bike-riders (hi) than it is to actually improve the quality of life in our city. Your tax dollars hardly at work. And for the record, they weren’t eating doughnuts when I approached them. Hamburgers and cupcakes, rather. Good on ya, coppers.
Fuck cops.
