There is no number for my offence in the vehicle code, I don’t think. Drunk Mouth is what I call it.
Another time I was driving my Aston Martin about 125 miles an hour over Waldo Grade. I didn’t bother to check the oil gauge. So, down at the bottom of a hill, on the Richardson Bridge, smoke and flames started coming out of the engine. Someone in a Volkswagon pulled over and said, “Do you want me to get the highway patrol for you?” I said, “Yes, please.” So he went and got the highway patrol. This cop weighs 205 pounds and has his thumbs hooked in his belt, which has a potbelly over it. I just didn’t like the looks of him. He said, “O.K., what’s going on here?” Remember, there are flames coming out of my car. I said, “What the fuck does it look like is going on? I’m having a goddamn party at four A.M. with fucking flames coming out of my car.” That’s the way I’m talking to him. “Down to the Civic Center, you drunk,” he says. Drunk Mouth, again.
Grace Slick, quoted in The Courage to Change: Personal Conversations about Alcoholism