The Parking Ticket
The other day, I popped into the supermarket for what couldn’t have been more than five minutes. When I came back out, I was greeted by the sight of a motorcycle cop, busy scribbling away at a parking ticket. I walked up to him, trying to appeal to his better nature. "Come on, mate," I said with a grin, "how about cutting a guy some slack?"
He didn’t even look up—just kept on writing. So, feeling a bit cheeky, I called him a pencil-necked Nazi lover. That got his attention. He shot me a glare and, without missing a beat, started writing up another ticket—this time for worn tires!
I wasn’t done. "Does your psychiatrist make you lie face down on the couch because you’re so ugly?" I quipped. He didn’t say a word, just slapped the second ticket onto my windshield and immediately began writing a third.
This went on for a good twenty minutes. The more I insulted him, the more tickets he wrote. But you know what? I couldn’t care less. My car was parked around the corner.
He didn’t even look up—just kept on writing. So, feeling a bit cheeky, I called him a pencil-necked Nazi lover. That got his attention. He shot me a glare and, without missing a beat, started writing up another ticket—this time for worn tires!
I wasn’t done. "Does your psychiatrist make you lie face down on the couch because you’re so ugly?" I quipped. He didn’t say a word, just slapped the second ticket onto my windshield and immediately began writing a third.
This went on for a good twenty minutes. The more I insulted him, the more tickets he wrote. But you know what? I couldn’t care less. My car was parked around the corner.
