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What Seems to be the Problem Officer?

Got pulled over yesterday. I’m on holiday and it was the type of pullover that would make any inexperienced, hormonal, pasty, post – teenage driver stain his undergarments.

I only noticed her in my rear view mirror after I had not completely stopped at a stop sign. At this point I thought my life was over. I was overreacting about as bad as a women’s football coach would after being beaten on penalties at the world cup final, it’s alright, nobody cares anyway.

She didn’t pull me over though, not yet. She decided to stick herself so far up my backside for the next 3 miles I had to just leave her there until it didn’t hurt anymore. The flashing lights then turned on, I pulled over fearing I’d done 65 1/4 in a 65 zone.

She casually walked over to the car. I had a moment of clarity and thought to myself “it’s alright, I got this.”

“What seems to be the problem officer?” I slyly enquired as I lifted my shades.

“License and registration please.” She stated with authority.

She was playing hardball.

“Certainly mam.” This was like an episode of COPS. I must admit I was loving every minute of it despite the growing urine patch on my shorts. She took away my license and I had this horrifying image of myself being thrown onto the car bonnet and being violently searched. At least it was a woman and not the kind of hairy trucker looking man that would eye me up in the prison shower.

“Here you go”, she said as she casually handed my license back to me after faffing about in her police-car mobile. Then she just drove off and left me. No explanation.

I felt like I’d been stood up on a date. I didnt even get to first base. Not even a hug. Is this how Americans usually get treat while driving?

I think I’ll get a job at KFC and serve a police officer. While they’re stepping out I might just stop them and ask:

“Do you like fried chicken?”

When they answer I’ll just walk off with a side order of righteous swagger.