Lola

Picture this: Looking tonta on photo radar

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Hola, Photo Radar Paparazzi.

It’s Lola. I won’t bother to leave you my last name. Why should I? You already have my license plate number, my mailing address, and at least three very unflattering picture of me looking totally tonta.

It’s times like these when I wished I’d followed my dear madrecita’s advice and studied law – or ignored my not-so-beloved hermanita who talked me out of splurging on a botox injection for Christmas last year. That way, even if I end up in court, I’d look good.

Yes, yes, I know algunos in the Legislature oppose photo radar. I support that causa, but not for the same reasons. They talk about it being unconstitutional, since scofflaws like me don’t get to face our accusers.

Excuse my French, pero that’s pura caca!

The law is the law. Así es. In this case, our accuser is the eye of the camera – which doesn’t blink and doesn’t lie. That’s more than I can say about my worthless ex-esposo, who I always knew was lying when he started blinking like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind – which, como soy former MeChista, I hated because Hollywood wanted us to feel sorry for a slave owner? Híjole, puh-lease, girlfriend!

Where was I? Oh, yes. WHY I DETEST PHOTO RADAR!

I hate that there are people taking pictures of me sin permiso. True, I am not famosa. All I’m saying is that people should not make me pay them to have a picture taken of me without my permission.

Everywhere we go now somebody’s taking pictures, video, or scanning us with Swine Flu detectors. Yes, it’s good when they catch a criminal in the act. They deserve to get convicted if they’re too stupid to know that every business uses security cameras these days.

I, on the other hand, resent having to wake up every morning wondering if I’m going to end up being photographed or videotaped doing something compromising (legally, mind you). Now, anyone who knows me knows I try to live a decent and respectable life. But we can’t be on guard todo el tiempo.

If you’re like me, there are days when you don’t want to primp and pose, and you’d rather just schlep in a bathrobe! Like when I walk the dog. (WHICH NO ONE ELSE IN MY HOUSE EVER DOES!!!) When I walk the dog, I wear walking-the-dog clothes! The dog doesn’t care.

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are cameras on the walking trail. Maybe if I speed-walk a light will flash and I’ll end up looking loca on the Petco online  photo gallery of sin verguenza dog owners who think it’s someone else’s job to clean up after their pet’s tú sabes qué – which is a $200 fine, as it should be.

Por fin, I believe in saving lives as much as the next chica, but I want to go on record as being categorically against the paparazzi police taking my pictures without my permission – especially when I’m having a &*&)#*%  bad hair day.

That’s worse than unconstitutional. It’s bad manners.

Besides, if I’m going to pay to have my picture taken, I want to look good, not tonta.

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