Two good olâ boys are ridinâ down a dusty country road in an old pickup truck, windows down, Hank Williams playinâ on the radio, and a cooler full of empty promises and half-finished beers between âem.
Theyâre laughinâ, singinâ, and not payinâ much mind to the world â until the driver glances in the rearview mirror.
âDang it, Billy!â he says, eyes wide. âThereâs a cop right behind us, lights flashinâ!â
Billy freezes, beer halfway to his lips. âAw shoot, what do we do?â
The driver thinks fast â or at least, as fast as a man with six Budweisers in him can.
âQuick, finish your beer, peel off the label, stick it on your forehead, and hide the bottle under your seat!â
They both scramble, slappinâ labels on their foreheads like itâs a first-aid emergency.
The truck swerves a bit, gravel crunches, and the driver finally eases it to a stop on the shoulder.
The officer walks up slow, takinâ one long look at the scene â two fellas grinninâ from ear to ear with Budweiser labels plastered across their foreheads.
He squints. âUh⊠you boys ainât been drinkinâ, have ya?â
The driver, without missinâ a beat, pointing to his forehead, smiles proudly and says, âOh no, sir â weâre on the patch!â