Exiting the southern end of Crowley’s Ridge at Helena, Arkansas, George Carsen stopped at an Arab-owned gas station to rewater his 4-wheeled steed. The mechanical, blue conveyance burped its 32-gallon stomach full, and George transferred some of his funds into the coffers of Saudia Arabia, perhaps to train some more terrorist pilots. George was eastbound over the molasses brown Mississippi entering the state that shared the same name as that river. He was now in the flat floodplains of endless crops pursuing his goal of staying the night at Oxford, Mississippi. It was around 4 in the afternoon when George experienced a monkey wrench in his machinery as squad cars ahead had traffic stalled. “God damn accident!” George muttered as the vehicles ahead of him came to a crawl.  One by one, the troopers allowed the iron chariots to proceed until it came to George, who sported out-of-state plates The 6’8″ black trooper who should have been an NFL linebacker then signaled him to pull over and roll his untinted window down. “LY-SENZ!” was his only utterance. George who was familiar with some Ebonics was baffled. “Excuse me?” queried George. “LY-SENZ!” was the second command out of the man mountain. “What is this about?” enquired George. The loud response was, “LY-SENZ!” Old George finally got it on the third time; oh, he wants to see my driver’s license. Fumbling around for the plastic equivalent of who you are, he produced the document and handed it over to that bear paw of that huge, somber trooper. George scanned the highway and spotted 4 troopers in 3 cars examining all drivers. Only George made the grade for an interrogation. The trooper eyed up the card, the truck, and then, George. After a minute, he responded, “CONZIN!” George responded with, “what”? The Man reverberated back, “CONZIN!” Oh ya, George thought, they are affirming that I am indeed a citizen from Wisconsin. “Ya, CONZIN,” he replied. The giant cop handed George’s license back and said not a word more. 

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