Bizarre Christmas Traditions From Around The World

Christmas is a world-wide celebration. Each year millions of people celebrate Christmas, carrying a message of peace, comfort and joy. We all have special traditions that we participate in every year for Christmas. Well known traditions range from decorating the tree on Christmas Eve or buying your tree the day after Thanksgiving to special meals.  Not all celebrations are something we are used to seeing. As the old saying goes: What we may think is bizarre, is perfectly natural to someone else. Some Christmas traditions around the world are drastically different from what we may be used to. Some can be seen as being funny, others that are thought to be a little on the strange side and a couple are downright terrifying.

Parrandas

Cuba rings in Christmas with a bang, beginning on Christmas Eve. Every year of Remedios becomes the site of Parrandas. This religious carnival started well over 200 years ago. Legend has it that a priest was tired of people missing midnight mass because they were falling asleep. So he sent his altar boys into the street, carrying with them pots and pans. The altar boys were told to bang on pots and pans as they walked up and down the streets to keep people awake for midnight mass. So every year, people take to the streets banging pots and pans on their way to midnight mass.

Krampus and Perchta

We’ve all heard the warning about a lump of coal in our Christmas stocking as punishment for being naughty. In the Alpine countries, they take it to a whole new level. Dear Santa Clause is accompanied by two demonic characters named Krampus and Perchta. These terrifying demons are to keep little children on the straight and narrow throughout the year. If little kiddies have been bad they are told that Krampus will drag them to hell in an old sack. This is for the ‘mild’ offenders. For truly bad children there is Perchta. She makes Krampus look like a picnic. Perchta comes with tales of disemboweling children and then stuffing them full of straw. A human scarecrow if you will.

Roller Skating and Toe Strings

Many people make a yearly pilgrimage to their local church for Christmas mass. Every thought of making the trip easier with roller-skates? In Caracas, Venezuela early on Christmas morning this is exactly what happens! The streets are closed to car traffic as hundreds of people roller skate to mass. And that is not the end of the tradition. There is more fun to be had! Sometimes children will even tie a piece of string or rope to one of their toes. The piece of string is long enough so that it can dangle out the window while the child is sleeping.  The next morning, as skaters roll their way to mass, they will give all the strings or ropes they see a good tug. The sleeping children are awakened so they can watch the show roll by their windows.

Bavarian Mortars

In the Bavarian Highlands, they greet Christmas in an explosive fashion. Every year Bavarians give a booming welcome to Christmas by setting off explosives. They dress in traditional garb and ignite handheld motors.

Kallikantzaroi

Here’s another tradition that sounds more like something for Halloween. The Greeks have a legend involving goblins that live underground for most of the year and only venture out for the twelve Days of Christmas. These goblins, somewhat resembling monkeys, spend the year underground playing in the World Tree. They shake the World Tree, trying to knock it over and end the world. Legend goes on to say that just when it looks like the goblins might succeed in their devious plan, Christmas time arrives, distracting them from their evil plot. Instead, they climb to the surface to wreak havoc and terrorize humans.  A sure-fire way to keep these beasties at bay is to hang a pig’s jaw just inside the chimney.

Mother’s Day

No, it’s not a typo. It’s not the day in May when Mother’s around the world are celebrated for being awesome. This is a day when kids in the former Yugoslavian Republic tie their mother to a chair. That’s right, 2 weeks before Christmas children sneak up on their mother and tie her to her chair. They then dance around singing, “Mother’s Day, Mother’s Day, what will you pay to get away?” Negotiations for her release involve giving the kids presents.

Shoe Throwing

Tired of spending Christmas alone, ladies? Are you looking to get married? Christmas Eve in the Czech Republic is supposedly a single lady’s chance to find out what her future holds. The legend says that you have to stand outside your front door and launch one of your shoes backwards, over your shoulder, towards the door. If it lands with the toes pointing towards the door you’ll be married within the year.

Mari Lwyd

Meaning “gray mare” in English, this Welsh tradition involves a person covered in a sheet while holding a horse’s skull on a pole. The jaw is usually spring loaded so as they walk around town the Mari Lwyd snaps at people and wreaks havoc. If it “bites” someone, that person is obligated to pay a fine. 

Kiviak

Most Christmas meal traditions revolve around dinner. In Greenland, they have a Christmas lunch with a main course that is not for the faint of heart – or gut. Christmas lunch usually consists of Auk, which is a type of bird. The preparation of the bird goes way beyond bizarre. The bird carcass is wrapped tightly in seal skin and buried in the ground, in the forest, for more than six months. At Christmas time, the putrid bird is dug up, the rotten innards are pressed from the body and then the meat is eaten. 

KFC

Christmas is the time for traditional meals. We are all familiar with the Christmas Ham or Turkey with all the fixings. But what about chicken for dinner? What about KFC to be more specific? Well, if you happen to be in Japan for the Christmas holidays, chances are pretty good your Christmas dinner will be KFC. In the 1970’s, KCF hatched a marketing scheme that took off and launched buckets of KFC onto Christmas tables across Japan. Today the tradition is so popular that unless you reserve your bucket of chicken months in advance, you may not get any.

El Caganer – The Great Defecator

This one is almost too bizarre to believe…almost. In many Latin, Central and South American countries there is the tradition of El Caganer. El Caganer is a little figurine of a peasant that goes in the nativity scene. He can usually be found in a far corner, away from the manger. Traditionally he wears a little red cap and blue pants, which are pulled down around his knees. Why? Because the phrase El Caganer literally translates to: The Great Defecator. His pants are around his knees because the little figurine depicts a man…shall we say…taking care of business. Now before people start raising their eyes to the Heavens above and crying foul and that it is sacrilegious, let me clarify the belief behind El Caganer. Because El Caganer is providing ‘fertilizer’ it’s a good omen for the coming year to be bountiful, with good harvests, wealth and prosperity.

Walnut Boat

One tradition in the Czech Republic has ties to fortune telling. The tradition involves members of the family making little wooden boats and loading the boats up with walnut shells. Once the boat is loaded a candle is placed in the boat and lit. The little boats are then sent to sea, as it were, across a large bowl of water. If the boat makes it across the bowl then that particular boat owner will have a year of good health and prosperity. You can figure out what it means if the boat sinks.

Safe and Happy Holidays!

Do you remember why you came...?

Every Friday morning I head over the hill into Cole Bay/Simpson Bay to start my double shift. As I top the hill, The View Point comes into sight and with it the myriad of tourists. As high season approaches there are more an more buses parked at the View Top, a sea of tourists spilling out of each one, cameras and iPhones at the ready. Before they even seem to realize what they're looking at, the grandeur of the view, they're snapping away, looking to capture that magical shot. The million dollar photo that will make suffering through their slideshow / scrap book worth while.

There is a handful of tourist off to the side of the main pack. They simply stand at the edge of the look out point and LOOK. Some have an unconscious forward lean in their stance, a yearning, as if being pulled by the view before them. On the face of some that yearning, that longing, is crystal clear. The Dream. Today, those expressions made me stop and think.

Many of us have come here from other parts of the world. And many of us have been here for quite some time, perhaps long enough to forget what it was like the 1st time we set eyes upon this island. Some of us, myself included, have seemed to have forgotten what originally drew us here....what it was that we saw that put that dreamy look in our eyes.

For me, it was the whole idea of the exotic islands. As a kid I did quite a lot of island hopping with my parents. By the time I was 16 I'd been to every island in the Caribbean, Leeward and Windward, a large potion of the Bahamas and one or two off the coast of Mexico. I was always curious to the island life. The laid back style. I would watch the locals with a mixture of curiosity and longing. I had grand dreams of being the next Ernest Hemingway - writing my memoirs from a hammock, living in cut off shorts, tank tops and barefoot.

My 1st memory of Sint Maarten is from my childhood. I was about 10 or 11 and we stayed at the glorious Mullet Bay Resort. I remember the beautiful garden outside our villa, seeing my 1st humming bird and walking on Front Street. For my parents, a life long love affair started. They built a house on the island and took as many vacations as work would allow. I would take a 3 week trip to the island every summer. When I was 26 I remember standing on the balcony of our house, overlooking Great Bay and vowing that one day I would live here and write a book and be published. Six years later I was here on a permanent basis. (It took another eight years to publish a book.)

It' nearly 11 years since I made the move to Sint Maarten. In the last few years I have fallen out of love with the island...the fault is partially with the island and with me.  I've lost sight of what brought me here, stuck in the daily grind to make a buck. Sometimes I get caught up in the drama generated by close living quarters. Whether is the latest debacle of the Government or the latest neighborhood gossip, I've lost track of why it's good to be here. Bound an determined to leave the island, convinced on most days that it just 'sucks ass' to be here, I've started thinking about my next destination and losing sight of where I'm at.  On a nightly basis I have visitors ask me a thousand questions about what brought me here. The conversation always includes :You're so lucky to live here! It was a statement I was growing to resent. It makes me want to roll my eyes and explain why island life sucked so bad.

Then today I was drawn up short. I saw my old dream on the faces of some tourists and my own expression turned rather sheepish. I know I'm not alone in this. We need to stop every now and again and remind ourselves of the dream that brought us here. Sometimes just a drive down by the airport to look out over the lagoon to the green hills in the distance, or just a short walk to the beach to bury tanned toes into the sand is all it takes. The island I originally fell in love with has changed a great deal, and not all for the good...but it still holds some magic.

Should you trust security guard(s)?

Now, I have posted about this before, but it seems it bears re-posting in light of the recent double murder in Cupecoy.

Sources from the police  have announced the apprehension of a suspect in the brutal murders of an American couple from South Carolina. The report states that the man, a Jamaican, was also a security guard, who had contact with the couple. He is also suspected of being involved in other crimes on the island. A security guard, people. Someone who is supposed to be there to ensure safety, SECURITY. Someone who is supposed to be a source of help, assistance and comfort. Someone, who in many cases, you see every day and say 'Good Morning' to or wave to as you walk by. This brings up a whole string of ugly question that demand answers. The biggest one is: Who is in charge of screening these people? What kind of background checks are they subjected to? These people are being hired in positions where they work in close proximity to money, valuables and people. There is nothing worse than hearing a crime was committed by a security guard, especially a violent crime. This is not the first time a crime has been reported to have been committed by a security guard, though it is by far the most violent. These people are hired to be trustworthy. What is to be done when they turn out to be the criminal who is responsible? Sure, the criminal will be going to jail - ok, well MAYBE. Stronger chance he'll be deported back to Jamaica. But what about the person/company that hired the individual? They cannot be blameless! They surely cannot claim 'we didn't know'. They are SUPPOSED to know!Who is in charge of these security companies? Who is in charge of giving them operating licenses? What are the credentials for these companies? Who is screening the Security Companies? Who is in charge of making sure these security companies know what the hell they're doing? Who is in charge of training the security guards? There is so much more to this job than pulling on a uniform and parking your butt on a chair every night, dozing off. And there is the physical aspect of the job. I recently drove by a bank late at night in Simpson Bay and spotted a security guard out front. He was about 50 years old, extremely overweight and walked with a noticeable limp. Surely he cannot be expected to do anything physical? How can he be expected to chase down a suspect? People, he's guarding your money. Do you feel comfortable with that? Do you feel comfortable with the fact that security guards can track your daily/weekly activity? Do you feel comfortable that security guards have full access to the building your living in/visiting - your bank, your hotel, your condo? Yes, this SHOULD spark a little paranoia! People have become complacent. They see someone in a uniform and just make the assumption all is well, all is safe and that person is trustworthy. It is a dangerous illusion. An illusion that has cost the lives of two people.

Do islands sway? And other funny questions...

Living on the island of Sint Maarten/St. Martin, currently working in a t-shirt shop, puts me in close proximity to visitors (tourists) on a nightly basis. And on a nightly basis I'm amazed at the things tourists say and who little they really know. There comments and questions are generally a great source of amusement.

The little island I live on, Sint Maarten/St. Martin, is the smallest island in the world divided by two countries: France and Holland. We have a French side and a Dutch side. Many of us working in the hospitality trade on the island of St. Maarten/St. Martin, myself included, have a daily ritual of gathering at our local watering holes to compare our work days. A very common topic, naturally, is the tourists we meet. Many of us have met people visiting from other countries and have struck up long lasting friendships. We all have that certain person, or group of people that come year after year. These are people that love to have a good time, are pleasant and generally know quite a lot about this island. Then there are those visitors that are the complete opposite.

I'm constantly amazed at the people who know absolutely NOTHING about the country they are visiting. Some can't even find it on a map! The general theme seems to be a lack of common sense and general ignorance. Now, some people show an eagerness to learn. I've had people spend a good 45 minutes in the shop with me, asking me every conceivable question they can think of regarding the island. Everything from food prices to government. I enjoy these conversations quite a lot. I had one couple return several times during their stay to ask for advice about where to go what to see. I like helping them out, making their time a great one, so that they'll come back & tell others to come here. It's just good business. Besides, I love a good conversation. Again, not all visitors are like this. My friends and myself have traded stories about some of the ridiculous things we've had visitors say. I've made a small list. Keep in mind, these are tourists from all over the world, not any one particular country.

Recently I had a couple come into the shop that elevated my blood pressure to unsafe levels. The wife aimlessly wander the shop, drifting from one clothing rack to the next. The husband was admiring the Harley Davidson motorcycles on display and mentioned how local people were insane in the way they drove motorcycles on the island. I smiled and explained that driving laws were not heavily enforced on the island. His wife, a few degrees shy of sober, quickly piped up, 'It's not like that in the States.'
I smiled and nodded politely at her. Her husband continued asking questions about the island, having an honest interest in the topic. Every answer I gave him regarding how things worked on the island, his wife would pipe up, 'It’s not like that in the States.' After the third time, I pinned her with a glare, forced a smile and said, 'Well, it’s a good thing we aren’t in the States.' She promptly snapped her mouth closed. Her husband half winced, half smiled. He seemed rather embarrassed by his wife. I conversed with the man for about another 10 minutes. At the end, he asked one final question regarding drinking while less than sober. After I explained that driving when less than sober was also not too strongly enforced, his wife piped up snidely, 'I guess it’s like that ‘cause we’re not in the State.' I beamed at her and said, 'Exactly!'

When I worked on the cruise ship pier, one scenario played itself out over & over again with very little variation. At least five times a day I would be approached by different travelers, all with the same problem. They would be frantically waving their cell phones in the air like a pigeon with a broken wing. They would make their way over to my small booth and wave said cell phone dangerously close to my face and squawk, 'Maybe YOU can help me. I just don’t understand it. My phone provider assured me I would get coverage in any and all U.S. territories. But look! I have no service here! Why is that?' I would gently explain that perhaps the reason for lack of signal was due to the fact that we were not in the United States nor in a U.S. Territory. This information was usually met with a confused frown, a full minute of silence followed by a sheepish grin.

One year, in the weeks prior to Heineken Regatta, a World Class Sailing Event on the island, I had a question from a tourist that I just could not answer, having been rendered speechless. The gentleman had come in to have a quick bite to eat and a beer. He sat himself at my bar and we proceeded into the usual chit-chat: weather, traffic, bridge openings. He asked if I would be attending the Regatta. I smiled and said no stating I wasn’t a big fan of large crowds. I smiled and said, 'I swear, there are so many people on this island you can feel the island swaying under all the weight.' The man promptly put his beer down and looked at me in all seriousness and replied, 'Does it really sway?'

I’ve hear such stories from other people that just make me shake my head while laughing. Here are a couple I’ve had my friends tell me:

'Hey, can I ask you something? That island over there - Saba, right? Is it always there?'

'Is the French side on the same island as the Dutch side?'

'I didn’t know black people could speak French!'

'I’m surprised there’s crime here. It’s an island.'

'Is it safe to go out on a boat tour? I wouldn’t want to run into any pirates. They have pirates in Somalia.'

'My wife & I would like to book Scuba diving lessons. Does it matter that I can’t swim?'

And the kicker:

While out on a tour boat to Tintimare:
Tourist (to boat Captain): Could you drop me off in the water here?(Grand Case) I’d like to swim under the island and meet up with you on the other side. (Tintimare Island) This being said as the woman pulled on her fins, mask & snorkel.

Tattoos, old age & the cool kids

Seems the topic of tattoos has popped up a lot in the past few days, even before I made the blog about my nickname.

As I work in the boutique I see so many people every day & tattoos seems so common place now. But I can remember when there were still pretty taboo. 20 years ago or so. Now, as I write this, I realize I'm showing my age, but it's still a pretty funny tale.

I got my 1st tattoo at the ripe old age of twenty. To be honest I'd given it a full two years of thought before I committed. That was the day I found out how addicting and beautiful skin art can be. To date I have seven, inducing a fairly large piece on my arm, that was the evolution of my 2nd tattoo. Over the years I have been asked thousands of times about my skin art. Questions like: does it hurt? Why that symbol? How long have you had it? Twenty two years later & I have no regrets. I love my ink and would never think of covering it with clothing or having it removed.

One question that always made me chuckle was: What's going to happen when your old? Do you think you'll still be happy to have your tattoos? Truth be told - if your thinking of that before you've even gotten a tattoo - DON'T GET ONE.

As for my answer to the questions, I never really gave it  much thought until someone provided me with an answer a few years ago.

I was at a beach party, bonfire blazing, stars blinking to their own music overhead. It was a gathering of close friends, nothing big. One of those gatherings where it seems that magic happens as the hands of the clock sweep past midnight. There were guitars being strummed softly, seeming in tune with the palm trees that swayed in the trade wind coming off the ocean. Despite the late hour and probably due to the fire, the sand still retain some warmth as tanned toes burrowed under the surface. The ages ranged from 21 up to 60.

As resumed my place next to the bonfire after a quick walk through the surf, the firelight danced across the large tattoo on my upper left arm, catching the attention of one the older members of the group. She made a comment about regretting never getting a tattoo. I grinned and promptly told her it was NEVER too late. I used my mom as an example. My mom had been 70 when she’d had permanent eyeliner tattooed around her eyes and a beauty mark above her lip. Her tattoo artist had been mine & it had been a special moment for us. I never thought I would have had a bonding moment with my mom with tattoos, but hey, you just never know.

As I gave my example her son chimed in stating he would love if it she got a tattoo. Having several himself, he wanted to share the experience with her. In all honesty he thought it would be so cool. We all smiled, nodding in agreement that if she wanted to get a tattoo she should go ahead with it. Then we fell silent, gazing into the fire, lost in our own thoughts. The son then spoke again to his mother. He said it would be awesome if she had a tattoo because when she was very old and ready for a nursing home – no longer able to talk, she would automatically be assigned to the area with all the other tattooed seniors & wouldn’t have to worry about being alone or bored.

This garnered a general chuckle & a snort from me. The idea had merit! It was a guaranteed way to spend your final days with the so called ‘cool kids’. The mental images that popped into my head had me doubled over in laughter. The first image was of me & several of my dear tattooed friends in electric wheelchairs & scooters raising hell around the corridors of some facility. I could clearly picture the light of delight & devilishness in our eyes as we whooped and hollered our way around the building, our powered chairs & scooters leaving tire treads in the pristine halls as the staff gave chase. Another image was a group of about ten seniors all in one corner, laughing a whooping as they shared their life stories. The stories including some ribald remarks, re-tellings of: This one night….and so much more.

As I laughed I remembered the questions asked to many several times about what I would do about my tattoos when I was old…& I had found my answer. I would enjoy them ‘til my dying day, proudly hanging with the ‘cool kids’.

The birth of nickname

In the past ten & a half years I've been back on the island, a very common question I get is about the name Tattoo/Tatu. I gave it some though and figured it would make a nice little tale to tell, as nicknames are something many of us had, whether we wanted to or not.

I'm not a stranger to nicknames. My first name is Louise and to this day many members of my family still call me Louolou Belle, Loulou or Lou. Out of the 3 only one doesn't make me cringe. At the age of thirty two I picked up a new nickname: Tattoo.

When I first came back to the island, I didn't really know anyone any more. It had been quite a few years since I'd been on the rock and being that this island is a coming & going point for many people, things had changed.I spent my first six months on the island as a bit of a recluse, slowing relearing the lay of the land, as it were. By the end of those six months, I was more than ready to jump back into society & the starting point would be a job.

I applied for a job at one of the local newspapers & I was granted a chance for an interview.  On the morning of my interview I stepped into the building, blinking as my eyes adjusted from the blazing sunshine outside to the greenish hue of the florescent lights. I introduced myself to the receptionist & I was corralled to a broke down office chair & told someone would be with me directly. My eyes strayed around the newsroom, taking in the flurry of activity as several people were talking loudly while others were tapping away furiously at a computer keyboard. The haphazard array cubicles each housed a computer & desk. Most of the furniture seemed run down or second hand. The building itself had a scent to it of newsprint & old coffee. Some sort of cleaning solution had been used in liberal amounts to cover the stale scent, but with little effect.

As I sat in a dilapidated office chair in the waiting area, I tried to think of all the things I would say or what possible questions I would face. I loved working but hated  job interviews. They tended to bring out my inner idiot, with stammering answers and blank looks. I looked down at my clothes and absently smoothed down the front of my sleeveless sun dress, a rare item of clothing in my closet. The reason for my choice of apparel was to reveal several of my tattoos, one of which was rather large. I didn't want my body art to be an issue down the line. I'd had several jobs where it had become an issue in the past. The sun dress had become a useful tool as it reveled enough that there would be no questions later on. All question could be asked right up front.

After a painful twenty minute wait, I was directed to a small office to begin my interview. As I entered the office I was greeted warmly by a tall slim gentleman with wire framed glasses & a warm smile. I firmly shook the hand that was offered by Mr. L before sitting down in front of an massive, cluttered desk, willing myself not to fidget.

What I had expected to be no more than a fifteen minute interview stretched out into four hours. It was one of those wonderful, yet rare instances where two people just clicked. It was as if two old friends had been reunited, without skipping a beat. Throughout the time, Mr.L remarked about my tattoos, expressing an interest in getting one. He made a faux pas at one point of forgetting my name & had casually referred to me as the Tattoed Lady. I wasn't offended, gently reminded him of my name and smiled. At the end of the 'interview' I left the office feeling great, but not sure if I had the job. Mr. L assured me I would hear from him the next day.

The next day, as promised, I received a call I was asked to return to the office. I gladly obliged & was informed I'd gotten a job as a writer for the entertainment supplement. Mr. L then sheepishly admitted he'd forgotten my name again and had kept referring to me as the Tattooed Lady to the staff. I shook my head with a smile & realized that something about the name just felt right. I asked Mr. L what he thought about the by-line: Tattoo. He grinned and agreed it would make for a great conversation. From that moment on, I became Tattoo. It seemed such a simple thing. It made me think to the musician Sting. I'd read somewhere how he'd gotten his name from wearing a striped jumper. He took such a shine to the nickname Sting, that he insisted people call him Sting. The memory had made me giggle as I though surely Tattoo wasn't that far of a stretch.

The next day I had business cards made with the name TATTOO emblazoned across the front. When I answered the phone I answered with: Tattoo. When I introduced myself, I used Tattoo. And it stuck. As I ventured out more it became easier and more natural to introduce myself as Tattoo. In fact I remember being surprised at how easy it had been. It was the perfect icebreaker when I was doing interviews or making new contacts. It became a game for myself & others as many tried to guess my real name & I wouldn't relent. The game continued for quite a few years. To this day there really weren't that many people who knew my real name. Some had suspected, but were unsure. Others were way off base with such guess as Gertrude & Helga, to name a few far fetched guesses.

Today, the name Tattoo is still firmly entrenched in me. I think even after I leave the island the name will continue with me, until another nickname presents itself. :o)

Obese Cops

Ok, here comes an entry that will probably put my butt into the fire, but I can guarantee this is a topic that has crossed the minds of MOST of us on this island at one point or another. The topic: Police Fitness.

This topic came to mind while I was driving down Pondfill road and had to stop at the roundabout for a pedestrian. The person crossing the street was a police officer coming from the police station. What really caught my attention was the sheer size of this officer. He was clearly obese. Well over 300lbs. This is not an exaggeration. The 1st thing that popped into my mind was: How could this guy chase down a criminal if need be? The cop is one of many I've seen on the force who are clearly not in top physical form. It also got me wondering about who's in charge of clearing these cops for duty? Is there a requirement? An exam? Do they have to run a 12 minute mile? Do 50 sit ups in under a minute? 50 pull ups in under 2 minutes? Clearly not. Is there a physician that has to sign off on a form to clear officers for active duty?

Not 5 minutes after seeing this cop I caught sight of the new recruits running along the side of the road, their commander shouting at them to keep pace with each other. What a contradiction of terms!

I mentioned the overweight cop to a friend of mine who casually remarked 'Well maybe he sits at a desk.' I thought about that for a minute and realized it doesn't excuse the clearly unhealthy situation. So what if he sits at a desk? Shouldn't he be setting an example? And I have seen plenty of other cops out on the road, doing road controls & whatnot whoa re clearly not in their physical prime. Think about it...A robbery occurs and the suspects are on foot. Who's going to give chase? An obese cop who'll end up having a heart attack after twenty paces? We've all seen examples of this as we pass through countless road controls or even coming out of the airport/customs. And to be fair, it's not just the cops. I've seen fat customs agents, immigration officials and even security guards. You think the overweight security guard standing watch at the bank after hours is going to be able to run down a thief that just stole your money?

Myself and friend witness another overweight cop struggling to make his way up the stairs at an establishment. No more than 2 flights of stairs and the cop was clearly winded at the top. He stood, stooped over, obviously trying to catch his breath. Shameful. It's quite obvious that health & weight issues are running rampant throughout the police force. Men & women alike are grossly overweight and this had a direct effect on their performance. Just because you're not a cop in the field doesn't mean you can be 5 feet 9 inches and weight in excess of 200lbs! It's a liability! Many of the cops are strokes & heart attacks just waiting to happen.


Look, I'm no super model. I'll be the first to admit that. I've had jobs that required a particular level of physical ability. When my physical health began to decline I changed careers, understanding when I was no longer capable of performing to the best of my abilities. Certainly my performance does not have a huge impact on other people's lives. I'm not involved in high stress, physically demanding situations.

Think about it. How safe & secure would you feel if you found yourself in a life & death situation and the time it took to respond to your situation was in direct association to the health of the cop? Would you want a cop in his/her physical prime or an overweight cop that could barely pull himself/herself from the responding vehicle? Imagine your house gets robbed and the responding officer is out of breath just climbing the stairs of your front porch. There's that stray thought in the back of your head that you might have to save the cop & give him/her CPR.