Shmoozing at Dawn
A little before 6 this morning, my cell phone rang. It was the valet of LAPD Chief Willie (My Boy) Bratton. He sounded desperate. Knowing my wife is a smart nurse, he sought my counsel because she was busily working out.
Mysteriously, he said, Chief Willie’s tongue suddenly had gone dust-dry.
No saliva anywhere in his mouth.
Both men were panicking.
Just a Dry Run?
Hubert, the valet, said neither he nor Chief Willie My Boy could understand the cause.
Searching for clues, I asked Hubert what Willie My Boy had been doing the last few days when he was not co-starring in obsequious press conferences and posing for cameras.
He reported that Willie My Boy obsessively had been licking the dusty boots of his demanding master, the ever-travelin’ Mayor William Shakespeare Villaraigosa, since last Thursday, the morning after the infamous May Day marches by and for illegal immigrants.
Fastest Chief in Captivity
As you know by this morning’s newspapers, Willie My Boy, an easterner still striving to be known as the fastest gun in the West, pulled the trigger in record time cops he blames for annoying illegals.
Making a shameless, desperate ploy to be rehired by the Police Commission for a second five-year term, he turned the humbling demotion of two high-ranking officers into a Broadway-worthy spectacle.
Willie My Boy Down on Life
Willie My Boy, showing how low he can stoop when his master the Mayor fires orders at him, downgraded Dep. Chief Lee Carter and Cmdr. Louis Gray.
Try never to get trapped in a foxhole with Willie My Boy unless your spouse is standing by with a yardstick and casket salesman.
Smacking his lips, Willie My Boy just engineered the fastest conviction and trial of cops in American history.
Homer Simpson or O.J.?
In some dank gutter, O.J.— in line to be the next deejay for the weeknight killer-oldies show on 92.3 FM — laughed himself to sleep last night.
May I suggest to the embarrassed and perhaps undeserving ex-Chief Carter and ex-Commander Gray that they look up the address of the Culver City Police Station.
Great place to get away from pesky fellow humans.
One of Those Clever Distinctions
The so-shrewd Willie My Boy was careful yesterday to classify the officer defrockings as a “personnel” matter not a “disciplinary” action. Sounds like an assignment for a crooked lawyer.
In Culver City, “personnel” is a handy little device that serves to clang down the iron curtain around any subject that City Manager Jerry Fulwood, Police Chief Don Pedersen and City Atty. Carol Schwab don’t want to talk about.
Never Heard of These Guys
If Mr. Carter and Mr. Gray were cops in Culver City, City Hall executives probably would not even acknowledge they are even on the force let alone being on the wrong end of a petulant billy club.
That, my friends, is how the Legendary Chief and the Present Chief have uncritically maintained the peace in this here town.
No crime. No punishment. Nobody’s business. No more questions.
Some police chiefs, like Willie My Boy, love to shoot off their mouths.
Let Me Hear You Talk
Others like to pretend their tongues have been shot off by bad guys.
Those police chiefs, including Mr. Pedersen of Culver City — who observes his one-year anniversary this afternoon — act as if they are deep into lifelong rehabilitation following a rare, delicate operation.
Medically, Mr. Pedersen’s procedure is known as Tongue Removal Surgery.
New Titles to Keep ‘em Fresh
What if Mr. Pedersen and Willie My Boy swapped jobs for a year?
First, though, Willie My Boy would have to scout out Culver City for a new master.
