Gather 'round, bitches. It's story time. This story might get a little boring in the middle or even in the very beginning, but I promise the ending is funny. Well, only one line is funny. Damn, this story sucks!

When I was 18 or 19, I was driving around the town of Red Bank, NJ with my friend Mike. We were looking for something to do one night. I often wonder what I did for fun when was in my pre-21 days. I don't recall. I know there were coffee houses and diners. And we played pool.

Well, this one night in the middle of the summer, we were sick of the same shit. But what to do? I just drove around some roads that I didn't know too well, and we kept our eyes peeled for bikini car wash or something. We found nothing.

I think we finally decided on caving in and going to play pool, so we headed that way. I was on these back roads that I wasn't very familiar with. I noticed that every other intersection, I'd have a stop sign. So I'd go one block, stop sign, next block, no sign. It went like that.

I was approaching one intersection after having just stopped at one, so this one was sans stop sign. I noticed a car coming down the road to the right. It was moving quickly, but my 18 or 19-year-old brain kept me driving and assuming that person in control of that car would stop.

We got closer, the other car got closer. I got to the intersection, not stopping, because there was no stop sign and it's my fucking right to not stop. The person driving the other car apparently had no regard for stop signs.

All of the sudden (well, not all of the sudden, because I was watching this fucker not stop the whole way), this car was headed right for Mike in the passenger seat. I swerved to the left in an attempt to get away from this car. I was just about to say, "Holy shit, Mike. We almost got hit by that car," when BAM! The car hit the back right side of my car. I spun around and was now facing the way from which I came.

I looked again to triple check that I didn't have a stop sign. I saw that I was right, he was wrong. I kind of flipped out. I wanted to pound this dumb fuck's head. I wasn't thinking. I hastily undid my seatbelt and got out of my car wanting to show what some good ol' American road rage was all about.

I headed towards the other car, Mike got out of the car and was telling me to calm down. I then heard someone blasting some rap. I assumed it was coming from this other car and all of the sudden was expecting the kid from Menace II Society to get out of the car and bust a cap in my ass. That's what people who listen to rap do. They bust caps in asses, right?

Anyway, I calmed down, took a breath, then saw the tiniest, most timid Asian man emerge from his car. He was not listening to the rap. It was someone who lived near the intersection blasting it from the windows.

So I looked at him and said, "You had the stop sign." I pointed right at it. He then said in some not very good English, "I did not see sign."

No shit?

So of course, nothing brings out the neighbors like a good car accident. Everyone peeks out their windows, comes down from their apartments to stare. Someone yells down to me, "Do you need to use my phone?" I say no. I then go to move my car out of the middle of the road, assuming there is just some body damage and it should be fine. I go to start it and nothing happens. Shit. So I yell up, "Actually, can I use your phone?" Some guy down the block yells, "I already called them!" Mike says back, "You called his parents?" The guy replied, "Oh. No. The cops."

At this point I hadn't even thought of calling the cops. My first instinct was to call my dad. He's a cop, so it's kind of like calling the cops.

So this lady invites me up to her apartment. This wasn't the best neighborhood. It was the suburban equivalent of the projects. I go up to this apartment and there was a lady probably in her 40's and in a bathrobe who lets me in to use the phone. She was really nice and asked me if I was OK and offered me some water. I declined and picked up the phone.

I call my house and I am talking to my sister when I see from out of another room comes this guy. This guy was the stereotype of a crackhead. When Samuel L. Jackson researches his crackhead roles, I'm convinced he studies this guy. He was incredibly skinny, had a filthy head of hair, was smoking a cigarette with shaky hands, and -- here's the kicker -- he wore nothing but a pair of underwear. The tight white. The tightest I've ever seen. He was kind of a cross between the crackhead that Jackson plays in Jungle Fever and the Damon Wayans homeless character from In Living Color.

I end my phone call and am on my way to the door and the crackhead (who might have never ever touched crack in his life, but I'm basing this on what the movies had taught me as a young man) comes over to me, and wishes me luck. He then goes to shake my hand, and I kind of put my hand out, but see that his hand is dirty beyond belief. Like it had boogers and mud on it. So I quickly and nervously pulled my hand away, just kind of held it up, and waved to him. I then quickly and nervously left.

I go back out and the cops are there. There wasn't much of an investigation to do. The cop even said at one point when he asked me to fill out the report, "It's pretty obvious what happened and it's not your fault." One thing about these two cops was that they were wearing shorts. I didn't really think much of it.

My parents quickly and nervously got there. I was fine, unhurt and more worried about the car. So my dad bullshitted with the cops for a while, because that's what cops do with each other. The Asian man had a relative show up who helped him write the report, which when I got his copy in the mail a few weeks later was absolute bullshit. One of the sentences was something like, "I stop at stop sign. I look both ways. I go. All of sudden, car comes from left very very fast and hit me." So I hit him, yet somehow, he spun me around.

Anyway, the whole thing is wrapping up, we thank the cops. They were really cool and seemed to be nice guys. But as they are walking away, one of them turns to us and says, "Oh hey, by the way. We're not fags. We're bike cops."

This was in reference to the fact that they were wearing shorts. I just found that so funny that they would have to clear that up. Like I'd go tell people my story and be like, "Yeah, but the weirdest part were these gay ass cops that showed up in shorts!" And these insecure cops must be thinking the whole time, "Oh man, I hope these guys don't think I'm gay."

Anyway, Mike and I went to our favorite diner after this happened and entertained all of our friends with our incredibly awesome story.

We're not fags. We're bike cops.

One thing I always felt bad about is that after I flipped out and wanted to beat up the other driver, Mike asked me if I was OK. That is, of course, the first thing I should have done. Ask Mike if he was OK, considering the car hit us about two feet behind Mike. If I drove a mile-per-hour slower, it might have hit him and caused much worse damage than a dent. So Mike, I'm glad you're not dead. And I'm sorry for not asking if you were OK. Sorry to get all mushy here, like I'm a bike cop or something, but I felt bad about that.