Whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop!
Screech!
Slam!
"What seems to be the trouble, officers? I know I wasn't speeding. Do I have a taillight out? Hey, what's with the guns?"
"Outta the car, slime bucket. Slow and easy. Keep your hands where I can see 'em."
"But--but officers--"
" 'Butt' is the word, pal.
"Frank, check his ashtray."
"There's a butt in it all right, Joe. It's still smoldering."
"OK, dog breath. Assume the position."
"Position? What position?"
"What's the matter, Mac? You don't watch TV? 'Miami Lice?' 'Hill Street Boogie?' Getcher palms on the roof of the car. Spread your legs.
"Frisk him, Frank."
"Well, looka here, Joe. A whole pack of poison stick."
"Better check out the car, too, Frank. I think we got us a major-league dealer here."
"Wow. Look at this, Joe. Under the seat. A whole carton. Have we got us a bust or have we got us a bust?"
"Commendation city, babe.
"You, Mister, put your hands on top of your head. No funny moves or you're history."
Click, click.
"Hey, what's with the handcuffs? What have I done?"
"You, hairball, are under arrest for smoking. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say may be used against you in a court of law--"
"Please, I got a wife, kids, a job. Those are only cigarettes. I don't do dope. No grass, coke--nothing. Just butts, and I knock back a few beers on the weekend, you know?"
"Hey, scumbag, where you been? Butts, of the tar and nicotine type, are now illegal, as in something only sick birds like you suck on. You, pal, are busted."
"Illegal? Since when?"
"Since the surgeon general said they're addictive. You're a nicotine addict,
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