Driving a titty dancer

I was driving a titty dancer to work because she doesn't own a car and, frankly, I had nothing better to do.

Titty Dancer: "Mind if I smoke? It's weed, not a cigarette" She knows I don't like cigarettes. I voice no objections, and so she lights up.

Titty Dancer: "Why don't you ask me over to your house anymore? I haven't seen you in months."
Me: "The last time you never showed up. You didn't answer my texts or calls."
Titty Dancer: "You're always so sarcastic to me. You think I'm stupid."
Me: "I wasn't being sarcastic. I was just stating a fact."


The titty dancer puts her hand on my thigh.

Titty Dancer: "I've missed you. I haven't had sex in months."
Me: "What about your boyfriend Bobby?"
Titty Dancer: "He never touches me. I think he's gay. He's working as a dancer in a gay strip club."

Titty Dancer: "Oh, shit! Is that the time? If I'm late they're going to fine me $50."

I speed up and soon take the Wayne Rd exit from I-94. A few seconds after getting on Wayne Rd, a car pulls up behind me with lights flashing. Fuck. A cop.

A Romulus, MI, police officer asks for my license and registration. I'm hoping he doesn't smell the weed. He says I didn't stop at the stop sign and issues me a ticket.

I proceed on toward the club.

Titty Dancer: "You should go to court and fight the ticket."
Me: "I don't think a Romulus judge will believe me over a Romulus cop. This is a way the city makes money." I had thought I had come to a complete stop, but I probably rolled through.

I pull into the Landing Strip lot. The valet rushes toward the car, thinking he's going to earn a good tip from a BMW owner, but then backs off when he sees titty dancer getting out.

Titty Dancer: "Thanks, sweetheart. I love you."

She hurries into the club in high heels--all hair and tight clothes and hot body. All I've got out of driving a titty dancer is a traffic ticket.