So the votes are in from Saturday's poll and the verdict? Have a look:

You cheap moron! Pay the fine! (12) 40%
Washington? Who cares? Tear up the ticket. (5) 17%
Jessica Simpson (2) 7%
Paris Hilton (2) 7%
Tom Skerritt (9) 30%
None of the above (0) 0%

Since I left it up to Welcome to Blog's readership I guess I'll be mailing off a check to the state of Washington in the near future. Plus, I'll have to have another look at Tom Skeritt's film catalog. He's really that great? I've only seen him in Maid to Order and Alien.

With that out of the way, I've got another traffic cop anecdote to roll out. Now that the nights are growing colder and we're officially out of Oktoberfest season and on the path to Halloween, this little horror story is all the more appropriate...despite the fact that it takes place in April.

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It's a random Thursday night in the year 2000. Eugene, Oregon is still shaking off the rainy, mildew-encrusted days of winter and I've just finished watching High Fidelity at the Cinemark 17. I have no desire to go home to the warm embrace of my ENG. 320 text books and decide to procrastinate on the empty streets of this quiet hippie burg.

I take a wrong turn and suddenly I'm on my way to Coburg, a town 8 miles outside of Eugene city limits. "Hey, I've never been to Coburg," I decide and continue on my way. I have 45 minutes to kill time until Conan comes on.

I roll into Coburg's main drag. It's an empty street filled with provincial tool stops and gas stations. Somehow I'm disappointed. This mini-road trip has proved to be a bust. I do a quick scan of Coburg. I'm the only person out here still awake. I pull a quick u-turn, blast past a stop sign and head back to the highway.

After sunset, the long, straight stretch of highway between these two communities is pitch black. On a moonless night it's impossible to make out anything beyond the scope of your headlights. I notice a car behind me. The driver has the parking lights on but nothing else. How they've managed to get this far down the road with no illumination is beyond me. Whoever is behind that wheel, they know this road well.

They pick up speed and suddenly the car is riding my rear bumper, literally four feet from impact. Scenes from a million suspense films fill my head. I pick up speed, hoping to pacify the driver and I'm going 10 miles over the limit. The car accelerates, keeping pace. I throw my foot down on the accelerator and now I'm going 80. I inch over, allowing the car to pass but it doesn't budge. If I slow down, I'm dead. My mind flashes to the final scene of Easy Rider. A local, riding a four-day meth roller-coaster, is about to break out a shotgun and turn my vehicle into a ball of flames.

I've now reached the apex my odometer's abilities. 85 MPH. There is no escape. I signal and slow down to pull over. Again, the car doesn't pass. It follows me to the shoulder.

Holy Mary mother of God, I'm about to die.

The spotlight goes up on the back of my head. It's too dark out here to make out the antennas on this unmarked squad car. Instead of a deranged hick, a highway cop strolls up with a huge smile on his face. His eyes are like saucers, as if he's about to greet a friend he hasn't seen in years. His expression is absolutely terrifying in the pitch black night. He shines a three-foot long flashlight in my face. His skin is a leathery orange, he's skinny as a rail and his teeth are yellow.

COP: "Hello there!"

ME: "Uh, hi."

COP: "I clocked you coming into town going 12 miles over the limit. I also saw you pull that illegal u-turn and run a stop sign. You were going 86 for a while there."

This is the stuff of nightmares.

ME: "Yeah, you scared me pretty bad. All I could see was this strange car riding my bumper. I couldn't tell who you were and tried to let you pass. I figured you were going to run me off the road.

COP: "I'm going to have to call this one in."

He wanders back and sits in the squad car for what seems like forever. Aside from it, I haven't seen a single car or human being since I left Eugene. We're the only people around for miles. Outside of Coburg no one can hear you scream
"ENTRAPMENT!" I'll be lucky to get out of here with $700 in traffic fines.

Dan Aykroyd found himself in a similar situation that eventually became the basis for Nothing But Trouble, a terrible movie that probably no one in America has seen but me. He encountered a demented traffic cop on a desolate highway one night in the '70s and was dragged into a town where a judge was waiting, at 3 AM, in a tiny courthouse.

The cop returns. I'm a dead worm on a rusty hook.

COP: "OK, I've decided to let you out of this one with warning. The next time you visit us out here in Coburg, drive a little slower. Got it?"

ME: "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

And then he was gone.

This is why I will never, ever go back to Coburg.