I’ll never forget the guy who started making comments about a police officer’s weight even before he had been arrested.

It was a routine call downtown. A bunch of rowdies scrapped in the street until the cops arrived. Most of the brawlers scrambled away like roaches at the first sight of blue lights.

In the end, a handful of bruised combatants told wild versions of the story and then moved along. It was calm again except for one shirtless teenager with an apparent taste for the booking process.

He was told to move along, but the kid had a few things to say. He was told more firmly to scram, but continued to gesticulate wildly while trying to make a point. And on and on it went.

After the fourth time the kid was advised to beat feet, he started away. Then, unwilling to rein in his feelings about the situation, he returned to pontificate further on the matter. Again, the hands were wild.

“You’re a fat pig,” he said to the officer.

And so ended the young man’s prospects for a free-wheeling evening with friends. In the back seat of the cruiser, he looked honestly stunned that he’d been arrested.

“Usually,” the officer told me later, “they wait until we’re on the way to jail before they start calling me fat.”

The party’s over

I’ll never understand those people who exert honest-to-God effort in order to get arrested, only to howl about the injustice once they’re in cuffs.

When we were teens, we’d occasionally get busted with beer in the woods behind the Waterville armory. Disgusted looks and stern lectures from the officers. Bottles emptied one by one onto the ground. You could cry at the sight of it. Getting that beer had taken all of our financial and intellectual resources.

But few of us ever mouthed off to the cops. We’d “yes-sir” and “no-sir” until they left us with further warnings. We tried to look ashamed of ourselves until the officers had cleared out of the woods. And we remained free to scrounge up more money so that we might finance another party at a better location.

It’s not so much respect for the law as it is a simple philosophy: Getting arrested is a really bad way to keep a party going.

So I’ve decided to write a short book that will make me a few bucks and drastically eliminate crime in the area. I do this only out of a desire to serve my community and because I happen to need quick cash.

Jail is not the goal

The title of the book will be “How to Not Get Arrested.” It will be a stay-out-of-jail guide for dummies and will include simple tips such as: Use the phrase, “I pay your salary,” sparingly when confronted by a police officer.

You should especially avoid using this particular line if you haven’t had a job in 20 years and you are presently seated behind the wheel of your car with a beer between your legs.

Other phrases I’ve learned that will boost a cop’s blood pressure include: “I’ll have your job for this,” and “Do you know who I am?”

Suddenly, the minor infraction that might have been overlooked has earned you a trip to the hoosegow. Really, man. Who needs it?

I have it easy. When cops and hoodlums go head-to-head, my only job is to observe. I stand aside, and typically, I can pick out the people who will end up in an orange jumpsuit by the end of the day. The scene usually goes like this.

Cop: “I’m telling you for the last time to clear the area.”

Jumpsuit candidate steps approximately 3 feet away and then circles back. It has dawned on him that he has every right to be here, in the middle of the street where bodies are writhing like worms with fists.

Cop in a louder voice: “Step back or you will be arrested.”

Soon-to-be prisoner 03126, swinging hands to stress his point: “You can’t tell me …”

Scuffle. Snap of handcuffs. Cruiser door slamming shut. County jail’s newest occupant screaming something about his lawyer.

Looking for free trip

It happens every night. Men, women and teenagers use all the psychology and persistence at their disposal to win a free trip to the lock-up.

There’s the man who wanted to fight each and every cop at a recent standoff in Lewiston. In the end, he only had to fight two. He lost.

Snap of handcuffs. The thunder of a cell door slamming shut.

There’s the woman who tries to lunge over a knot of officers to level one final slap at her husband as he’s led away in handcuffs.

There are those who expedite the arrest process by spitting at an officer. Few actions are more effective at prompting that coveted hands-cuffed-behind-the-back feeling.

Some people appear to savor the sensation of pepper spray in the eyes. But I suppose that’s another chapter in the book. I don’t want to give away too much here or sales of the book will never get off the ground.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.