A police officer pulled over a minivan that was creeping down the road at a snail’s pace—25 miles per hour, to be exact—backing up traffic like a slow-moving parade.
Behind the wheel was an elderly man, squinting over the steering wheel like he was defusing a bomb, while a pack of elderly ladies sat frozen in the backseat, clutching their handbags like flotation devices on a sinking ship.
The officer leaned in and asked, “Sir, any particular reason you’re driving slower than my grandma with a walker?”
The old man nodded seriously. “Officer, I’m just doing what the sign said! It said 25!”
The officer tried not to burst out laughing. “Sir, that’s not the speed limit—that’s the route number. You’re on Route 25. The speed limit is actually 65 miles per hour.”
The old man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Well that explains why the ladies have been praying nonstop!”
The officer peered into the back again and saw the women sitting like terrified garden gnomes, white as sheets and stiff as ironing boards.
Concerned, he asked, “Uh… is everyone okay back there?”
The old man scratched his head and muttered, “I think so… but to be fair, we just came off Highway 150.”
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