Saturday, March 13, 2004

Parking in the mall parking lot, a midget security guard named Jose waddles up to my rear passenger-side window and hits it twice with his nightstick, deliberately breaking it. I get out and yell at him and call him a "motherfucker," and he calls me drunk and tries to fight me. I'm definitely not drunk but I did just drink a bunch of alcoholic drinks, so I back down and use my cell phone to call 911. There are a bunch of girls in my car – Elizabeth and some of her friends – and I ask Elizabeth to go inside the mall and get me a bunch of hamburgers to fix up my BAL in case the police try to give me a test. On the other end of the phone line, I can hear burly police officers laughing and fooling around. They eventually do talk to me, but the chance of help seems slim.