After a certain level of alcohol consumption, do not approach women; if approaching must be done, let them approach you. Then, you can tell godforsaken lies about drinking because your partner got killed, and let sympathy steer the course.

Of course, during good, solid snorting drunks, the best policy is simply to leave the ladies alone, sit with fellow officers, get plowed, and pursue any of these conversational options:

1) We do all the dirty work, the thankless and dangerous work, the kind of work the damn soft-belly brass doesn't have the stones to do, and they're too busy kissing ass with the brass above them to try if they wanted to, anyhow.

2) Damn liberal politicians mollycoddle the criminals with low bail and light sentences so they can get elected to higher office while we're left here to clean up their damn mess.

3) Damn union, always in bed with the brass. When's the last time we saw a decent raise. And I ain't talking about this damn 3 percent cost-of-living crap.

4) I could have passed that damn inspector's exam, but who has the time to study raising kids and walking a beat? Besides, what's the use? Probably get bumped by some relative of the district commander, and who wants the headaches, anyway? Real police work doesn't happen behind a desk. It happens pounding the pavement.

I know following my advice will never lead to anything as exciting as getting sloppy drunk and chasing uncooperative skirt in a Central Valley cow town. But the consequences of not following my advice can be severe: You could have your next disciplinary hearing on the night some smartass columnist has his social plans fall through and decides to drop by, just to see what might be shaking at the Police Commission.

George Cothran ( can be reached at SF Weekly, 185 Berry, Suite 3800, San Francisco,

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