I do not want to die.
Because I am far from infallible, I am willing to concede the slight possibility that there exists a scenario in which I may benefit from the presence of the police. Even though I’ve tried to imagine such a situation doesn’t exist, I admit that I may have overlooked some hypothetical plight where cops save my life.
Maybe there are zombies involved and a real-world Rick Grimes rescues me by stabbing the rapidly advancing undead in the head. Or perhaps I will one day feel depressed at a party where the music is provided by a moonlighting deputy sheriff and, unbeknownst to me, a DJ saves my life. However, I’m going to go out on a limb and ask that if you ever think that I am in peril—even if you see me being attacked by animated corpses—there is one thing I beg of you:
Do not call the police.
If you think someone might be burglarizing my home, do not call the police. Because they might shoot me like they did 28-year-old Atatiana Jefferson. Or 23-year-old Brendon Hester. Or 22-year-old Stephon Clark. My television isn’t worth dying over. Read More