[DISCLAIMER: I am not endorsing my past behavior, but since it happened, I might as well have some fun with it. This is the wild ride!, after all. One can debate whether a DUI is a violation of NAP or not on the public roads, but the state’s response to a victimless crime is no solution to the “problem” of drinking and driving. It is aggressive profiteering that is taboo to debate in the public sphere — therefore, it will never change until the state’s demise. It’s also worth considering that the state can’t prevent drinking and driving, they can only profit from it. WHOA, he went there! Thank you for reading. Crack open a beer and enjoy! — Rich]

I got a DUI once. Let me rephrase that for you: I swerved a bit, while driving at varying speeds on a quiet back road in a college town. I had driven about halfway from point A to point B and had decided to play with the radio because I figured I was in a safe spot to fool around with a radio. Magically, as if he had been following me with his lights off (shocker?!), a state trooper pulled me over. This was before I realized I should never cooperate with any of this b.s. and so I did, thinking I’d breeze through the drunk tests and drive home. Ha! That night marked the beginning of my real education on how government really works.

But first, there was pain to deal with at home. My dad put me through the ringer. He told me — almost accurately — that they’d treat me like a murderer. The state could do whatever it wanted and I didn’t care, but at some point I had to tell my mom. I made her cry. At the time, I only worked three days a week and so I moved in with my mom and sister. They shuffled me to and from work (driving my car, that I fueled). Moms are the best and we don’t deserve them, I say.

Are you ready? I’m about to take you through the entire experience, from my point of view. And I don’t care what anyone thinks. My schtick today is to use the expression “b.s.” That means bullshit, if you didn’t know. There’s lots of it when you deal with government. Here we go! Grab your seatbelts, your beers, and your butts!

The cop told me to stop being a dick, but he never put it in the report. However, every time I sneezed, it was noted. I continued to be a dick, henceforth. The cop told me to “blow, blow, blow, blow, blow” while I, uh, blew, into the breathalyzer device — and tried not to laugh at how silly he sounded. Oh, I failed the breathalyzer test. In fact, it went very much against me, as it turned my case from a plain old DUI to an Aggravated DUI. Great job, Rich!

He then offered to let me make a call with my dying cell phone in an area with no cell signal, then threatened to not let me make my call outside — because I was being argumentative. I decided I wasn’t THAT drunk and I apologized — in fact, I told him I was a libertarian. He gave me a ride home. From the very comfortable amenities in his back seat at two am, I watched him pass someone while sipping a Rockstar energy drink. I asked him if he gets annoyed when people slow down in front of him,which almost everyone does when cops creep up on them. He told me, “Yes.” Then I asked him if he knew my girlfriend-at-the-time’s brother, who is a cop from a nearby town. He said yes and asked me why I wanted to know. I shut up then. “Just curious,” I said.

At the plea deal — aka “state trooper day” — my badass lawyer with a “civil libertarian side” got me in with the expectation that I’d get a lesser punishment and no b.s. from the prosecutor, who apparently is her rival, or something. Well, that turned into a hilarious event that had us both covering our smirks. The prosecutor turned a fast one on us, going against the agreement my lawyer had with the cop. I recently went to the courthouse to purchase (in statespeak, this is a “request,” plus a fee…) an “audio CD” of the hearing. When that arrives, I will definitely write up a report of my hearing. At my “plea deal,” it was much more like a battle — in which my side lost, but we took the spread with us. It was Bunker Hill. It set the stage for the rest of my war. The prosecutor — who has been employed by more than enough district courts, I hear — was told by the judge to calm down. She got uppity and I stood there with my hands crossed, following some b.s. script that all pleaders of guilty must follow to be granted with a lesser whipping.

We eked out a minor victory by scrapping one month from my suspension. And the state dropped a jail charge and a mandatory interlock device charge. It would be eleven months from that day, but twelve total, instead of thirteen. That is, as long as I went to this magical place called Drunk Driver’s Ed — and other forms of counseling and evaluations and all sorts of b.s. B.s., b.s., b.s.! All of it.

I went to this creepy place called Amethyst House and they quizzed me on my drinking habits and other lifestyle choices. “Do you like to take risks?” was a question. Attention all entrepeneurs! Hikers! Motorcyclists! Etc. Look out for those risks. Then I was personally interviewed. I met my first bureaucrat. And boy, did it go well!

Apparently I am a liar and a dirtbag, so I had to go to eight counseling sessions with a licenced alcohol and drug counselor, an LADC. But I called her my LDAC for so long, I just stick with it now. I went to public school.

The night of my DUI, I got the keys for an apartment in Exeter. I drank in Newmarket, the town next to Exeter. I could have driven to Exeter and slept on the floor of my new place. It would have been safer. Instead I chose to be a gentleman and drive to Somersworth, where I lived, which led me through a college town, hence my kidnapping. After my DUI, I was allowed to drive for thirty days — an absolute failure on government’s behalf to keep drunk drivers off the road, and more proof that it’s all about the money. I lived in Exeter for one month, then broke my lease and ditched. I made a move to Raymond, where I work. I would bicycle or walk to my job, which was 1.4 miles away from my apartment.

My LDAC was in Epping, six miles away through a wooded recreation trail. I biked eight miles there occasionally on Rte. 27, but often there was snow and it was cold. So I hiked. Our sessions lasted from November until February. She cancelled on me a lot, and the holidays were a factor. I was forced to read 8th-grade level literature aloud to her. It was a curriculum that existed before me. And it was designed for morons. Meanwhile she and I got along great and we had great chats about everything non-DUI-related. She knew that was my real therapy, but instead of going down that road, she was probably forced by law to make me read this b.s. middle school packet to her. I read sentences with expressions like “drinking and/or drugging” — and I made it a point to perfectly pronounce every effing syllable like an orator striving a point.

She called me an “old soul” and even mentioned a granddaughter she had that was of a similar constitution. I found that hilarious, because in any other circumstance, I’m sure she’d want to introduce me to her granddaughter (they are very close). “Off I go,” I’d tell her while it blizzarded out, “down the Rec Trail. Nah, I’ll make it. When I drove, I went up to the mountains all the time. I can handle this.” I’d walk home and dream about picking dandelion greens in the spring and I’d listen to podcasts. I listened to so many podcasts. It changed me for the better. More than any state-mandated activity ever has.

She mandated I attend two AA meetings. I had to get a form signed and everything. Let me tell YOU, this shit is stupid. I should have grabbed all the free literature and drank all the free coffee, but mostly I just sat in back and wrote in my diary. Oh, I paid attention. What do you think I was writing about in my diary? I learned nothing but collectivism and weakness. I told this to my LDAC, but she saw it as a positive. Don’t be like them, she told me. Maybe she was smarter than I realized.

After my fun chats with my LDAC — aka “counseling” — I went to Drunk Driver’s Ed. They call it “Impaired Driver’s Education Program.” IDEP sounds sillier than LDAC, so I just call it Drunk Driver’s Ed. One of the people in this class was just on some hospital-prescribed medication, but it still counts as a DUI. She still had to sit through the alcohol schooling. She doesn’t drink, and it wasn’t education. It was schooling.

This was a three day ordeal down in Portsmouth. My mom drove me and dropped me off and picked me up. Actually, one day my friend picked me up and we had dinner. She worked in a high end grocery store, so I stocked up on pastured pork and grass-fed beef offal. When you don’t have a license, you gotta take advantage of the drives into town.

It was in Drunk Driver’s Ed that I learned that people don’t “get” DUIs, they “achieve” them. That’s what a reformed fellow in a video said. He achieved eight. There was also a drugged-up well-to-do blonde housewife who took the cake: she got another DUI on the day she got her licence restored. And a few more, mixed up with a prescription drug addiction. Only the best examples for us losers! While watching the video, we were asked to think about who the people in the video were speaking to — their family, their loved ones, etc. I was the only person to suggest THE CAMERA. Duh…

It was in Drunk Driver’s Ed that I learned a stat: “One in two DUI offenders repeat.” In other words, you are 50% likely to get another DUI after “achieving” your first. It was a thought-provoking stat. I’ll be doing more research later (a quick google search offers up too many lawyer ads for my comfort right now), but I wonder if we were Luntz’d. Is it that every DUI offender gets two arrests, or is it an average of all DUIs divided by all offenders? Because if that idiot who “achieved” eight DUIs cancels out a bunch of single-offenders, it’s a bum stat.

Anyway, we were also told that the average DUI offender gets away with 80-something potential DUIs before getting caught. I have a big thumb to stick up that stat’s b.s. butthole, by the way. It’s probably another round-out of the crazy drunks versus the average person, who gets sucked into the extreme. I know I’ve driven “drunk” before — according to state definition of the scientific oddity known as BAC — but by no means was it that many times. And I like alcohol. And I like driving.

All of this, so far, is a blatant admittance by the government — as far as I am concerned — that their own stupid policies are a ridiculous failure. Hi, welcome to class. At the end of class, you will learn that what we’re telling you is ineffective. But we have to tell you this stuff, so you know…

In late February, I got sucked into some bureaucratic madness. Apparently, my DUI happened during a shift change. They dropped a charge at my plea deal that would require my having an “interlock device” in my vehicle. This is a little R2-D2 that you blow into to start your car, proving you aren’t over the limit — which is .02 for a DUI sucker.

The state dropped it, but the tyrannical Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) can do whatever it wants. I was summoned to a hearing at the Newington DMV to consider putting an interlock device in my car, if I wanted my license back. My mom picked me up yet again and we got lunch at Newick’s in Newington with my aunt. I had excellent clam chowder and we all griped about how it’s all about the money. EVERYONE KNOWS THIS, but no one does anything about it. OH, because their lives are also all about the money. We are all scrambling just to survive in this terrible place the state presides over. Thanks, government. And what do interlock devices cost? Oh yea, money.

My lawyer thought me a profound example of clean-cut, caught-up-in-the-system, good boy. I am NOT one of those guys who “gets cleaned up” becaue he has a court date, as the old-timer yankees like to joke about. I’m cleaned up already. In fact, my lawyer told me that if the state gives ME the interlock device, they’ll give everyone the interlock device. The law changed in January and I was her first case in the switchover.

In fact, the even-cleaner-cut bureaucrat told my lawyer there is no case history on these hearings.

He also decided (in good old bureaucratic all-caps script — never in person, of course) to sign Rich up for a good old Intoxalock. That’s a crony-company that I’m supposed to believe has a “customer service” number. I called them and was surprised to get a cheery female. I hate her and always will. They understand that they have to cater to annoyed folks who would rather drive legally than risk arrest, so they have to hire cheery people. They actually have a competitor: one other company with an equally dumb name. I didn’t bother calling them. I figured they both sucked and were overpriced.

Anyway, I was set up with the b.s. “b.j. robot” as one pal on Liberty.me called it, and before long it was in my car. I got my stupid plastic permission slip back, and all hell was good. My mom drove me (for the last time!) to Concord after I found out I couldn’t get it at the Epping DMV. I stood out front of the Epping DMV in the rain and looked up at the wicked american flag while I listened to some creepy, staticky woman tell me I had to go to Concord. I hiked home in a tiff.

Anyway, I had this little card in my lap while sitting in my mom’s car. I could drive. I was dropped off at home and as if some genie in the sky waved his magic hands across the land, I was allowed to drive an automobile on a government road. Blast every epic song ever recorded! Angels gasped and passed out and landed in the roads. I had to look out. Talk about negative externalities.

Oh, I’ve been driving safely ever since. Except when my b.j. robot goes off and I have to blow into it. Then I fear for my safety, because you know, it’s handling something while driving. According to the instructions, I can pull over and all that bureaucratic nonsense. Pull over in double lane traffic, while waiting to pull left onto a major highway, a road I travel regularly.

I’ve decided to drive like an masshole from now on (Massachusetts is this place where people go to drive terribly — have you ever heard of it?). I can swerve, cross fog lines, do every b.s. thing that you hate when stuck behind me, and every b.s. thing I apparently did when I was DUI’ing. The government doesn’t seem to mind, as long as I’m not of a certain BAC, I guess. What a surprise.


Here are the lessons from my DUI experience with the state:

1. never blow. I would have had an easy six month suspension with no other punishments. consider your state’s laws.
2. don’t talk. ever. cops are liars and wicked.
3. know a libertarian-friendly lawyer beforehand. also, don’t bother hiring a lawyer unless you will win. going into debt to cut a penalty 10% isn’t worth it ever. the state doesn’t care and will seek every penny it can muster from you.
4. drink and drive — on private property that allows drinking and driving. otherwise, consider your behavior on the public roads. Public roads are dangerous and should be banished.