[dropcap]L[/dropcap]ast night, if you drove across the 331 bridge at nine in the evening, you probably saw me. I was the fella with his hands spread on the hood of a Walton County Sheriff’s car.

I’ll explain: it all started when I was pulled over for a minor traffic violation. The deputy came to my window and asked for the necessary paperwork. When I asked if the officer’s German Shepherd wanted an organic bacon treat, I was politely requisitioned to step out of the vehicle. I informed the deputy I also carried gluten-free doggie treats. Things spiraled downward from there.

Soon, three cars arrived on the scene. The officer read me my Miranda Rights, another patted my crotch with rubber gloves. Thereafter, I was invited to recline in the backseat of an air conditioned Ford SUV while three Walton County deputies tore my truck apart. I hummed a few bars of the Fulsom Prison Blues to get myself in the spirit.

After forty minutes of detailed searching, the officer said to me, “Sir, are there drugs in this vehicle?”

“Lord no.” I itched my nose with my handcuffs. “Go ahead, dig around. All you’re going to find is a bottle of Tylenol and a Bee Gees CD.”

They conducted thirty more minutes of searching.

When they were satisfied no crack pipes or black tar heroin were in the glovebox, they released me.

“Sir,” the officer apologized. “The truth is, we thought you were someone else. You could be the guy’s twin.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I waved my hand at him. “I get that all the time.”