Okay, let’s just access the situation here. I’ve had thirty beers, I do not know where my license is, this car has no functioning lights… and it’s stolen.
Also, I’m hot. Yep. I think I’m good.
Any cop who thinks they’re gonna stop me is gonna have to overcome my undeniable erotic magnitude before they even consider taking me to the big house. Coincidentally, “The Big House” is also what I call that velvet lined Jacuzzi tub in my basement.
Actually, I should probably get some baby-making music playing on the car radio just in case. Safety first!
Hell, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve used my raw sexual congeniality to my advantage. Like the time I flashed my dong at that bouncer to get into the Rusted Root concert. Granted, it didn’t work and I was thoroughly tazed in the scrotum, but as long as the cop who stops me is cool with me hanging a hard four and a half inches then I got nothing to worry about.
I don’t know why this car doesn’t have seat belts. I mean beggars can’t be choosers but seriously this seems like a major design flaw. Whoops! Totally missed that stop sign. Okay, eyes on the prize. Cop sex! Let’s get it!
You know, maybe it’s this kind of thinking that’s the reason I keep having to go to traffic court all the time. And divorce court. That judge must be a eunuch or something — not once has my patented fan dance worked on him.
Maybe I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t shotgun three boxes of Franzia every night, hop a fence, hot-wire a hearse from the impound lot and then rely on the pure spherical perfection of my balls to get out of the ensuing legal bedlam. Maybe I should…
Fuck! There’s the cops. Whatever, I’ll self-actualize later. Right now I just gotta throw some rouge on my taint and hope this cop is cool with the sloppiest foot-job they’ve ever gotten.
Hey, it’s worked before. In Florida. Twice.