Elsie, an elderly lady, was patiently waiting to park in a spot when a young man in his brand new red BMW zipped around her and claimed the space she had been eyeing.
The Old Lady and the Speeding Ticket
One sunny afternoon, an 82-year-old lady named Mrs. Gertrude Simmons was pulled over by a highway patrol officer for going 70 in a 45 mph zone.
The young officer approached the car, glanced at the fluffy pink steering wheel cover, the bobblehead cat on the dashboard, and Mrs. Simmons, barely peeking over the wheel in her giant sunglasses and leopard-print sun hat.
Officer: “Ma’am, do you realize how fast you were going?”
Mrs. Simmons: “Well, I had the radio on really loud, and the car seemed to be enjoying it. I didn’t want to k1ll the vibe.”
Officer (smiling slightly): “License and registration, please.”
Mrs. Simmons fumbled through her enormous purse, pulling out items one by one: a tin of hard candies, knitting needles, a dog leash with no dog, and a laminated church bulletin from 1993. Finally, she handed over her license with a grin that suggested she may or may not fully understand the seriousness of the situation.
Officer: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Mrs. Simmons: “Of course! You young folks are always looking for an excuse to talk to a classy older lady.”
Officer (trying not to laugh): “No ma’am, you were speeding.”
She leaned in, squinted at his badge, and said, “Well, Officer Martinez, I’ve got a casserole in the oven, a cat stuck in the laundry hamper, and a bingo game starting in 20 minutes. 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.
