Pulled over: when seeing the light is a bad thing.

I spotted them in the rear view mirror, and they were gaining fast. I quickly concluded  that, once I pulled to the side, those lights would whisk on by, the wail of the siren "Dopplering" into the distance. God help whomever that maniac is pursuing.

Nope, not this time—no passing on by, no Doppler, and from the depths of my lungs, no cleansing exhalation of dissipated anxiety. As I changed lanes, he changed lanes. As I slowed and stopped, he slowed and stopped. Shit.

I got nailed for going thirty-two in a twenty. Cost: $189.00, or $15.75 for every mile an hour I exceeded the speed limit.

My positive karmic acts leading up to the pullover could not have foretold this event. Since I had committed to staying home with my ailing younger daughter, I offered to give the older one a lift to school, followed by a trip to Red Box and the grocery store. The patient at home had requested a movie and some nice coconut bars to cool her scorching throat. Nice gestures by Papa all around, no?

Maybe my karma was less about being kind to my kids today, and more about spitting my gum out on the street while biking back in July. It's possible that that decision may have led to an elderly lady's walker adhering to it, thereby causing a nasty spill, a broken hip and death from pneumonia on her ninety-ninth birthday.

Okay, I admit it; I shouldn't be speeding in a school zone. I could have hit a kid or a teacher or a puppy as I recklessly darted down Roxbury at the breakneck speed of thirty-two miles per hour. Society needs to be protected from a madman in a dented, sapphire blue Kia minivan.

And as they say, no one is above the law. If I'm caught breaking it, I must pay. I must be pursued by the tools our law enforcement community deems necessary for apprehending a speeder, or in this case, a mag-wheeled, turbo-charged phallic symbol bearing the logo of the Seattle Police Department.

Sour grapes? Maybe. And by the way, obviously someone in the SPD has Photoshop at home, because that picture above is as cheesy as they come.

I wasn't pulled over on a quiet suburban street where children play jacks and sell lemonade. This was a double-yellow-lined thoroughfare with a posted speed limit of thirty-five. The school is inside a massive Catholic church and the crosswalk is protected by walk signals and traffic lights.

The term "warning" is not listed on the approved words list for the SPD Traffic Enforcement Division. What I'm sure is on the approved list are mustaches and those heartfelt "have a nice day" wishes they convey as they slap that mint green paper into your palm and retreat to their muscle cars.

Since the fuzz man who pulled me over stuck perilously close to the clichéd cop, I probably should have thought faster and transformed myself into the stereotypical perp. I should've yanked off my shirt, unclipped my seat belt and ripped up my proof of insurance card.

Oh yeah, I also should have pierced some holes in a pop can and stashed it under the seat.

I realize I sound like Edward, King of the Whineland. After all, someone has to pay for the overtime these guys are putting in to pull us over during their overtime.

And I probably wouldn't be droning on about this if I hadn't returned home, opened the mailbox and found a jury summons for my wife.

Maybe we'll run into each other at the courthouse.

Purchase a ticket to yesterday's game? Count me in

Our culture just keeps on one-upping itself.

Last Saturday, Roy Halladay of the Philadelphia Phillies pitched Major League Baseball's twentieth perfect game versus the Florida Marlins. Obviously, this was a rare accomplishment, and those who witnessed it were almost as fortunate as lottery winners.

Just over 25,000 attended the game, played at the Marlins' home field, Sun Life Stadium, in Miami, resulting in approximately 15,000 unsold tickets. Typical of most profit-maximizing Major League franchises, the management of the Marlins seized on a rare opportunity and offered the remaining tickets to the already-played game for sale to the general public...at face value.

Three words: only in America. Where else can sheer desire for profit compel an organization to sell tickets to an event which already happened, to people who didn't see it? Our society really knows how to squeeze every last drop of value out of an opportunity, thereby devaluing the entire commodity in the long run.

Remember when bobble heads were kind of novel and cool? We collected them as kids, and they all looked the same. No more. Bobble heads have become an industry, compelling people to line up at the ballpark three hours early just to grab the promotional chachka for future re-sale on EBay. This season, the Seattle Mariners are holding three separate Ken Griffey, Jr. bobble head nights—three—just for him. I'm hoping at least one will show the head rotating sideways only, otherwise known as the "Strike Three Bobble head."

Corporations aren't the only culprits in promulgating over-the-top valuation. Just look at activities in which our children are involved, like T-Ball. At the end of the season, they get trophies the size of small lawn mowers. I was lucky to get a tick tack and a pat on the fanny.

When our kids attend a birthday party, they return home with more stuff than they receive on their own birthdays, often resembling Oscar night gift baskets. Our son or daughter bursts through the door, shouting, "Dad, I bowled a 250 today." I have to be excited, because what jerk of a dad would respond, "So what. You had those lame kid bumpers." Not me.

If our society acclimates itself to this type of overvaluation, by the time our kids are adults, the Olympics will award, rather than gold, silver and bronze—gold, super gold, and super awesome sparkly gold medals. The Vice President will become the President, and the President will be the President With Benefits.

Children will no longer be asked to pick up their nasty, used Kleenex tissues off the couch cushions. Nope, they'll be gently reminded to gather up their "protein-enriched nasal hygiene strips."

Then again, maybe not. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to install my "my kid is an honor student" mud flaps.