Here's something you might be interested in.
I called 911 last night. But it’s not nearly as exciting as when Donna Jackson, the 57-year-old Oklahoma resident, called the other day.
Some guy was breaking into her house. And on her 911 call, you can hear the pounding of him trying to get in.
She sounded visibly shaken, but was calm enough to tell the operator she was getting her shotgun. She said “I don’t want to have to kill this man, but I’ll kill him graveyard dead, ma’am!”
Nice.
And, uh…she did just that. After the operator told her to go into a bathroom, Jackson said the room would be too small with her big shotgun. She stood her ground.
She shot and killed this loser. And the poor woman felt horrible about doing it, almost breaking down as she said to the operator “Oh dear God, I think I killed this man. I’m going out the front now.”
The police already said no charges would be filed, as she was protecting herself. The guy she killed had a rap sheet a mile long (and looked a lot like KOGOs Chip Franklin).
Now, this is the type of shooting I don’t mind (unlike that idiot in Texas who shot two guys breaking into a neighbors house and got away with it).
My 911 call is going to be so anti-climactic at this point…but here goes it.
My girlfriend and I had finished some Mexican food on University in Hillcrest. We were going to hit a few stores for Christmas gifts. For some reason, we decided that a few of the things we wanted we could order online.
We made a U-turn right before getting to Hazard Center, and as we’re driving up the street we see three Latinos jump a tall Caucasian. One is holding the guy from behind, and another is throwing haymakers at his head.
I told my girlfriend to stop. Now, I’d love to say I was going to jump out of the car and kick some butt. But I’m no Steven Seagal. I figured it best to leave this to the authorities.
I called 911. And, my cheapskate mind initially thought of how I had called 911 on two previous occasions. Once, I kept getting a busy signal. Another time, when a car was turned over on the I-163, I told them nobody was around it and someone might hit it, as I almost did.
When my phone bill came in, there was a $1.75 charge for that call. Not sure what that was all about. But I figured it was worth a couple bucks to possibly save a life.
As we’re slowly driving forward, the three guys drag him down a hill. This is where there’s a bridge over the San Diego River.
We make a U-turn, and see a couple in an SUV next to us debating whether to call 911.
I start describing the scene to the 911 operator. He’s asking me to describe what they look like and what they’re wearing. My girlfriend laughed when I couldn’t think of the style of shirt, claiming I sounded like a 90-year-old white guy that isn’t hip to what the kids are wearing now days.
I said “The guy throwing the punches was wearing a black-and-white checkered shirt. It’s that material…that material that you sometimes see younger Latinos wearing.” He replied, “Flannel?” I said, “Yes, flannel. It was as long sleeved flannel shirt.”
I gave the heights and weights, as my girlfriend kept telling me things that made it hard to hear the operator. And as we swung around again, we saw the tall Caucasian guy walking on the sidewalk. The three Latinos were gone. The operator is asking me if he looks hurt, and I say he looks fine. He did keep looking behind him as he headed toward the trolley station. I was told officers were on their way.
I asked if I needed to stay and he said it wasn’t necessary.
I have no idea how this guy got away from three guys punching and holding him. And I wasn’t about to find out. There was a minute where we discussed pulling over to ask him if he was alright. But the thought of getting carjacked or something (and we had our little dog in tow), made it not worth the risk.
I played racquetball at 10 p.m. and my buddy and I went to Sombrero's on Friars Road just before midnight. The cook had two pieces of tissue dangling from his nose. Not the best look for a chef cooking your tacos.
And it hit me. That's what people do when they've been punched in the nose to stop the bleeding. Could this guy be one of the people I saw earlier in the evening?
He caught me staring at him, so I quickly looked down at the salsa I was scooping into a cup that was way to small.
I just assumed it wasn't him. And I figured I'd hear on the news what happened to those three guys that never made it back up that hill.
I called 911 last night. But it’s not nearly as exciting as when Donna Jackson, the 57-year-old Oklahoma resident, called the other day.
Some guy was breaking into her house. And on her 911 call, you can hear the pounding of him trying to get in.
She sounded visibly shaken, but was calm enough to tell the operator she was getting her shotgun. She said “I don’t want to have to kill this man, but I’ll kill him graveyard dead, ma’am!”
Nice.
And, uh…she did just that. After the operator told her to go into a bathroom, Jackson said the room would be too small with her big shotgun. She stood her ground.
She shot and killed this loser. And the poor woman felt horrible about doing it, almost breaking down as she said to the operator “Oh dear God, I think I killed this man. I’m going out the front now.”
The police already said no charges would be filed, as she was protecting herself. The guy she killed had a rap sheet a mile long (and looked a lot like KOGOs Chip Franklin).
Now, this is the type of shooting I don’t mind (unlike that idiot in Texas who shot two guys breaking into a neighbors house and got away with it).
My 911 call is going to be so anti-climactic at this point…but here goes it.
My girlfriend and I had finished some Mexican food on University in Hillcrest. We were going to hit a few stores for Christmas gifts. For some reason, we decided that a few of the things we wanted we could order online.
We made a U-turn right before getting to Hazard Center, and as we’re driving up the street we see three Latinos jump a tall Caucasian. One is holding the guy from behind, and another is throwing haymakers at his head.
I told my girlfriend to stop. Now, I’d love to say I was going to jump out of the car and kick some butt. But I’m no Steven Seagal. I figured it best to leave this to the authorities.
I called 911. And, my cheapskate mind initially thought of how I had called 911 on two previous occasions. Once, I kept getting a busy signal. Another time, when a car was turned over on the I-163, I told them nobody was around it and someone might hit it, as I almost did.
When my phone bill came in, there was a $1.75 charge for that call. Not sure what that was all about. But I figured it was worth a couple bucks to possibly save a life.
As we’re slowly driving forward, the three guys drag him down a hill. This is where there’s a bridge over the San Diego River.
We make a U-turn, and see a couple in an SUV next to us debating whether to call 911.
I start describing the scene to the 911 operator. He’s asking me to describe what they look like and what they’re wearing. My girlfriend laughed when I couldn’t think of the style of shirt, claiming I sounded like a 90-year-old white guy that isn’t hip to what the kids are wearing now days.
I said “The guy throwing the punches was wearing a black-and-white checkered shirt. It’s that material…that material that you sometimes see younger Latinos wearing.” He replied, “Flannel?” I said, “Yes, flannel. It was as long sleeved flannel shirt.”
I gave the heights and weights, as my girlfriend kept telling me things that made it hard to hear the operator. And as we swung around again, we saw the tall Caucasian guy walking on the sidewalk. The three Latinos were gone. The operator is asking me if he looks hurt, and I say he looks fine. He did keep looking behind him as he headed toward the trolley station. I was told officers were on their way.
I asked if I needed to stay and he said it wasn’t necessary.
I have no idea how this guy got away from three guys punching and holding him. And I wasn’t about to find out. There was a minute where we discussed pulling over to ask him if he was alright. But the thought of getting carjacked or something (and we had our little dog in tow), made it not worth the risk.
I played racquetball at 10 p.m. and my buddy and I went to Sombrero's on Friars Road just before midnight. The cook had two pieces of tissue dangling from his nose. Not the best look for a chef cooking your tacos.
And it hit me. That's what people do when they've been punched in the nose to stop the bleeding. Could this guy be one of the people I saw earlier in the evening?
He caught me staring at him, so I quickly looked down at the salsa I was scooping into a cup that was way to small.
I just assumed it wasn't him. And I figured I'd hear on the news what happened to those three guys that never made it back up that hill.