“First of all – I wasn’t speeding. I had selected a speed I consider to be reasonable and prudent, given the conditions on the road. Quite frankly, I don’t even remember how fast I was going…”

“You were going fifty-three in a thirty-five zone,” the officer snapped, cutting me off.

“That’s what YOU say, sir,” I retorted, “but I’m here to tell the court my speed was reasonable and prudent given the conditions. Therefore, I ask that your honor have this complaint tossed out on the grounds that the speed was neither imprudent nor unreasonable.”

That was it. That was the basis of my entire argument. In the four years since I received my driver’s license, I had accumulated so many speeding tickets I was in danger of losing said license. In fact, this very ticket I was fighting would add two more points to bump my total to 14. This would likely mean a suspension, and definitely sitting through an intensive driving course that would consume a valuable weekend of my life. I had no choice but to fight the case.

The interesting part about this ticket is it was one of two I received that day. Both were written by the same officer, who was in the very same spot along a route to a friend’s house. He clocked me going 52 on the way there; 53 on the way back. The previous case had been argued a month before – and I lost that one rather swiftly.

The Scottsdale traffic court judge remembered me from the month before and asked if I had any NEW arguments to present in my case. I acknowledged that while my appearances in the Scottsdale courtroom were starting to look like Paul Lynde’s guest spots on Hollywood Squares, the way I understand the law, my argument was solid.

“Then you have a lot to learn about traffic statutes, Mister Bruns,” the judge quipped. “My suggestion is that you go to college and study law. Defendant is found guilty of unlawful speed and fine remains at $200.”

Then he hammered the gavel and a distinct depression started to settle in. In another month, I received official notice from the Department of Motor Vehicles. My license would indeed be suspended except for travel to and from work. Oh – and you’ll have to attend an extremely boring class over an entire weekend, with the flotsam and jetsam of society. These are people who will argue laws and ask questions in class, extending the misery. These are people who want to tell the story about how they received their 12 points, and how the police are so brutally unfair.

I bring these memories up because they are the first thing that came to mind when I received a speeding ticket in the mail last month. My initial response was the first feeling I have whenever I’m accused of doing something illegal: “Wasn’t me.” They’ve heard that one before, though, because they thoughtfully included a photo of me rocketing through an intersection in Paradise Valley. In fact, there’s three photos of me, and a letter that should just read, “It WAS you. Send $250.”

The citation was for unlawful speed, as I had indeed floored it to bust through a yellow light. The picture clearly showed that I made the light, but through some incomprehensible cross-triangulation tracking system that apparently is so complicated it can’t be explained on a piece of paper, it was “proven” that I was speeding. There was no radar gun or anything you can look at and say, you got me, chief. Just some zeros and ones stored on a hard drive, which proclaimed me guilty.

“What this really means,” I exclaimed to the missus, “is ‘they’ want us to just mail in a check without questioning the system. They expect us to admit and submit – like good little minions who help them fund their next Arts Center or something. Well, I’m not playing that game, no sir. I’m fighting this.”

I squinted and looked a little closer at the evidence. It looked like I was picking my nose in the photo. I mean, my finger isn’t jammed in my sinus cavity, but it looks like I am pointing at the side of my nose, explaining where I might place a diamond nose stud. I showed the missus, who looked at the printout for less than a tenth of a second.

“You’re picking your nose,” she said.

I know I was scratching my nose that day, but not the inside of my nose, as that is completely unacceptable social behavior. I wasn’t speeding and I wasn’t picking, but a snapshot in a 1/400th of a second of that day says different. So here I am, now more interested in setting the record straight about the nose issue than arguing my tired defense of reasonable and prudent.

And how do you do that? Well, you scratch out a check for $250 and you write “Wasn’t Me” in the memo field and you mail it in to make it all go away, that’s how.