The Geriatric Malcontent

X: Your license and registration please, sir.

X: (sniffs) Sir, what’s that?

Y: My license and registration like you asked, old boy.

X: (gestures) No, what are you doing?

Y: Barely staying alive, son.

X: That’s not what I meant, sir. What are you smoking?

Y: Oh, this? A new fangled cigarette I found in me grandson’s bedroom. Never had a nicotine buzz like that. I was on the way to the store for some more.

X: Please wait here a moment, sir. (Under his breath) Why do I get all the nutjobs?

Tires squeal just as he steps to his patrol car, and he turns to get a lungful of bad exhaust and a faceful of gravel.


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