Joe-Bob

Somewhere on I-95 in the state of New Hampshire, a routine stop for speeding by Patrolman Jack Smith, and partner, James Thompson.

“Drivers license and registration, please.”

“Dribehs license, uh, I don’t habe a dribehs license.  Lee me lone!”

“Ma’m, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”

“What f’,…huh…? I haben’t done anydigg wrong officeh.”

“Step out of the car, please ma’m.”

“I haben’t done anydigg wrong, duh…uh…?”

Shit, is this going to be another one of these days?  I better call in back up just so I have some backup on my testimony.

“This is Officer Stark, I’m on I-95 one mile east of mile maker 124.  I’m going to need backup.”

“This is dispatch, what’s the nature of your problem?”

. . . .

Garbage day, Washington, D.C. “Joe! Hey, Joe!”

“What is it Harry?” shouted back Joe-Bob from the driver’s seat of the Capitol City garbage truck.

“This guy wants to talk with you.”

Joe-Bob looked in the rear view mirror to see a heavy-set, rapper looking dude standing next to his sidekick looking a upset.

“Great, what now? I can’t just tell him to get lost.  Okay Harry, I’ll be right there.”

“Crap!”

Joe-Bob nearly sprains my ankle when he jumps down, missing the one section of the road with no potholes.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Yo! garbage man!  Right on! You’s stink t’high heaven. ‘S coo’, bro.”

“What?”

“You’s stink, garbage man!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’s crushed mah’ trashcan. ‘S coo’, bro.”

“Trash can?”

Here comes another local.

“Tyrone, is you havin’ problems wid de garbage joker again?”

Ignorant low life, I’m sick and tired of listening to this.

“Why don’t you go get a job and be productive?”

“To hell wid dat. Man! De guv’ment pays me.”

“What?”

Jesus, I can’t understand any of this gibberish!

“De guv’ment pays me, can’t ya’ und’stant American.”

“The government pays you?”

“Yea, yea, de guv’ment honkyfool.”

Enough of this, why am I talking with this guy? You become a fool when you talk to a fool.

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