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Thought it would be nice to post another of this winners articles which is even more condescending to the men in blue:

IX. CLOSE CALL IN KANSAS/A POST-SCRIPT

We’ve once again been harassed by John Law, this time in that ever-unpleasant asshole of the United States: Kansas.

Mo finally gave out and crashed in the back, where Allen was already dead to the world. Salem was dozing in shotgun, and that left none other than yours truly at the helm. I’ll go ahead and admit that, had an officer actually witnessed the way I was driving, I would have deserved to get pulled over; like any sane man, my only objective was to get the fuck out of Kansas. To that end, I was pushing a hundred the whole way, weaving around eighteen-wheelers with reckless abandon, and holding up a pair of too-dark sunglasses up with one hand to keep the sun from boring into my vision. There were no cops around, so I was safe - or so I thought. It turns out that the motorists of Kansas are degenerate, puerile, shit-nosed little narcs, one and all.

And so it happened that some skittish Kansas scum summoned THE MAN to swoop down upon me. The officer darted out from the scene of another accident- tricky bugger- and pulled me over. My heart sunk as I saw him approach. He was a lawman in the true Kansas tradition, sporting a park ranger’s hat and the slack-jawed, snaggle-toothed aspect of a man who is generally distrustful of all things unfamiliar. His belly bounced with appropriate portent as he waddled to my window. As he blinked and recoiled at my appearance, I knew that as a long-haired, earring-having, hoodie-wearing brown kid with a bandana tied around my head, I didn’t stand a chance. As surely as I knew the words to the Led Zeppelin song blasting from the stereo, I knew my ass was sunk.

“What’s the problem, Officer?” I asked him, fully conscious of the not-too-subtle way he was checking my eyes and sniffing my breath.

“We got a report from another motorist about four or five miles back, that you was driving erratically,” he replied, half-sneering.

“Is that right? Well, maybe, I don’t know- this is the first time I’ve ever driven an SUV. I’m trying to get the hang of it.”

“That right?”

I nodded.

“You been drinking son?”

“It’s ten in the morning!” I replied.

He got my license and registration, and then had me get out of the car, where he patted me down for drugs and weapons after asking whether I had either on my person. For the first time I was thankful that we couldn’t get our hands on anything harder than grass before we left Austin. I let him defile me with his grubby hands, confident that I had nothing on me.

“What’s this?” he asked, referring to my left jeans pocket.

My heart dropped yet again. I pulled out a Ziploc bag containing an Aderol pill, for which I have no prescription, and a marble, which I found and thought was pretty.

He peered ominously at the contents of the bag.

“What is this?”

“Oh, that’s for my ADD,” I lied. “It’s an Aderol. I have a prescription.”

He grunted. “What’s this…ball?”

“That’s a marble.”

“You go sit in the passenger seat of my car.”

We sat in his car and he interrogated me, asking me several times if I had drugs or weapons in the car, trying to get me to admit I’d been speeding or weaving, asking me where I was headed and waiting for my story to change, generally making a ham-fisted effort to find something to arrest me for. Finally, he led me back to our car, where he told me to stay while he checked up on the other guys’ licenses. Allen, awakened by the pullover, was quick to hide the pot. However, when the cop came back, he leaned into the back and pointed at a brown bag by Mo’s feet, which happened to contain the white rum.

“What’s in that bag?”

Allen, however, didn’t waste a second. He grabbed the garbage bag at his feet and waved it in the officer’s face.

“THIS bag?” he asked. “This bag has all our muddy shoes in it, and I think a couple shirts. You want to take a look?”

No way is the cop that dumb, I thought. I was wrong.

“No, that’s alright, I believe you. Can you drive this thing properly, son?” he asked me.

“Sure thing, officer.”

“Alright then, you guys can go. Oh, wait- I forgot your pill.”

He went back to his car and grabbed the Ziploc bag, then went over to another cop car parked on the median. My heart sunk a third time.

He returned to my car with the bag in hand.

“Thank you for being honest, son.”

It took a concentrated effort not to laugh in his face.

“You know, it’s illegal to carry this without a prescription.”

“I didn’t think I’d need it for a short trip,” I said lamely, waiting for the hammer to fall. It didn’t.

“Well, here you are. Drive safely now, you hear?”

He handed the bag to me and we went on our way -- four longhaired hippies who had had the good luck to run into the dumbest cop in the most backwards state in our union.

I think Hunter S. just might have been proud.

-Ajai out

http://www.partycampus.com/article.php?id=177