so, a lesbian and a cop walk into a bar.

I don’t know the punchline to that joke because it’s highly inappropriate. But is it as inappropriate as the text my little sister just sent me? Evidently, the state of New York now provides transcripts of the conversations people enjoy with the officers awarding their speeding tickets. HOW IS THIS A GOOD THING? I guess I’ll ask George Orwell—maybe he can tell me. In the meantime, I can hear Margaret’s flat, deadpan voice telling the cop that she “imagines” her ticket is for speeding, and not for inviting him to sit on a stick (her expression, not mine).

Well. I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of speeding tickets, and how grateful I am that there’s no extant record of me flirting my way out of yet another point on my license. As it is, there’s quite enough fodder to sink my future ill-advised and catastrophic run for Congress without written evidence of me telling a police man how manly he looks in his uniform. (That used to work pretty nicely, by the way. Margaret, you should try it sometime.)


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