Unless you want a riot at the senior center, I suggest we wrap this up.”
The officer was completely thrown off. “Okay… but speeding is still—”
Mrs. Simmons interrupted: “Now listen, Sonny.
I’ve been driving since Elvis was skinny, and if I made it through the ’70s without a seatbelt and with a map the size of a tablecloth, I think I can handle a little extra speed on a sunny Tuesday.”
Before the officer could respond, she added, “Besides, I was being tailgated by some maniac on a scooter. I think he was trying to race me!”
Officer: “Ma’am… that was a kid on a tricycle.”
She gasped. “He’s got a future in NASCAR, I’ll tell you that.”
After a long pause, the officer finally chuckled, gave her a warning, and told her to slow down.
As he walked back to his car, Mrs. Simmons rolled down her window and shouted, “Hey! You single?
My granddaughter’s a nurse, great cook, and only slightly more sarcastic than me!”
He laughed and waved her on. And Mrs. Simmons drove off into the sunset—at exactly 45 miles per hour.
Mostly.
