On Saturday night, I was having drinks with some friends outside on a bar patio when I saw a half-disgruntled/half-disoriented-looking cop walking down the street giving me the hairy eyeball—and not in a “oh hello there!” eye, but rather in a “you, don’t try to run, you” way.
He got closer and closer, and I thought I was hallucinating, until he finally walked right up to our group, looks me dead in the face, and goes, “Do you do improv comedy?”
And I’m all “ah, yes” and he’s all “yeah, do you know so-and-so?” and I’m all “oh of course!” and he’s all “I knew I’d seen your face somewhere before.” (Thankfully, he didn’t mean a line-up. *BIG GULP*)
Then he saunters away, and someone says (after he is out of earshot), “Ha! I thought he was going to bust us for drinking outside. Was that even a real cop? What was with all the tattoos?”
(Well, if you must know, It’s called “hard living,” my friend, “eating tough cookies and going to improv comedy shows, why not?”)
A little decorum, por favor. Apparently, cops pull people over and I pull cops over. The natural order of things and all that, pip pop!
Moral of the Story: You never know when you’re going to have to do a bit of thinking on the spot, or alternately, when you have to reference your hobby of thinking on the spot in order to clear your good name.