Sympathy for the Joker


I’m enjoying another buzz, riding around in my car, getting into a song by the Beatles.
Oh my God, that was a cop. He is doing a U-turn and I see his flashers.

Think fast: windows down, stick my pipe down my pants.

Shit! These are my relaxed fit blue jeans, which are so tight my pipe’s jammed against a crease, not going anywhere.

Here he is:
“Sir, you went right through that stop sign. Your left windshield wiper is missing, and so is your left headlight. License and registration, please.”

Think fast. Talk your way out of this. Say something!
“Officer, I am just coming from the dermatologist, who told me that the mole on my butt is pre-cancerous. I’m afraid my mind was not on my driving.”
I say this with a genuine look of pain on my face. Somehow I manage to make a tear roll down my cheek.

I hadn’t been to a doctor in months. My vivid imagination was working well.
“Sir,” the officer replied, “I can see you are in pain. I’m going to write you a warning this time, with thirty days to get your car fixed.”

Did I feel bad about telling a lie to this officer of the law?
Yes, for about thirty seconds.


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