As in:
Her third year out of the academy Patrice was partnered with Martin Jaantz, who was five years older than she and already something of a local celebrity for the way he had thrown himself off a bridge to rescue Vulcan, the police dog, from a half frozen river. Martin, Patrice found, was the real deal, not only a terrific cop but a gentleman as well. Unlike most of her previous male patrol partners, there was no snarky humor or sexual innuendo from Martin. But there was one weakness. In pursuit or in heated confrontations, his verbal commands were often mangled with malapropisms or wildly conjugated phrases that made no sense at all.
The chief had once sent a memo out discouraging use of the “f” word in public settings so Martin, more than most, tried to avoid using the “f” word in his commands. But that just increased the pressure on him to give the right sense of urgency to his orders. He wanted to sound originally threatening, without being too profane. But the more he worked at it, the worse he got.
“Put the jar down or I’ll rectumize your spotted liver, asswipe!”
That was the first one that got her, to where she was almost laughing too hysterically to help handcuff the suspect.
Then the meat counter arrest: “Put that chicken down or you’ll both taste the morning in sweetmeats!”
Where the hell did that come from?, she thought, once her wheezing subsided.
But the one that brought her to her knees was the bowling alley bust.
“Shutup! Shutup!” he commanded. “One more fungus word above your tongue and you’ll need your rental shoes to search the crapper for your salads!”
“Oh gawd!” one of the drunk bowlers replied, dropping his 16 pound ball to the hard wood and holding his hands up, “not that again!”
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