The Policeman and the Driver
A police officer walks up to a car window after pulling the driver over.
“Sir, do you know why I stopped you?” the officer asks.
The driver shrugs. “No idea, Officer. Problem?”
“Yes,” the officer says. “You were speeding. License, please.”
The driver sighs dramatically. “I’d love to… but I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have one?” the officer says, already stressed.
“Nope. Lost it four times. Drink driving, you know how it is.”
The officer blinks hard. “O…kay. Then I’ll need your vehicle registration.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I stole the car.”
The officer’s jaw drops. “You WHAT?”
“Oh, and I k*lled the owner,” the driver adds casually, pointing backward. “He’s in the trunk if you want to check.”
The officer stares, slowly backs away like he’s in a horror movie, and radios for backup.
Within minutes, five squad cars arrive. A senior officer steps forward, hand on his gum.
“Sir, step out of the vehicle.”
The man steps out calmly. “Afternoon, officers. Something wrong?”
“One of my men reported that you stole this car and mu*ered the owner.”
“Mu*ered? Me?” the man gasps. “Feel free to check the trunk.”
They open it—completely empty.
The senior officer frowns. “Is this your car?”
“Yes, sir,” the man says, handing over perfect registration papers.
“And your license?”
He pulls out his wallet and shows a spotless, valid license.
Now the senior officer looks really confused.
“Sir… my officer said you had no license, stole this car, and committed m*er.”
The driver shakes his head sympathetically and says:
“Well, Officer…
I bet that lying b*stard told you I was speeding too, didn’t he?”
