Stranded and Scared

I was driving my Cadillac to the holiday party, when my tire went flat. “Just my luck,” I said to myself; “now I’m stuck smack-dab in the middle of the ghetto without a spare tire or a shotgun.” I looked around, and there was no one in sight except two thugs in a beat-up Volkswagen. They nodded and pulled up beside me. I assumed I was a goner. They rolled their window down and said: “Hey, what’s the matter — do you need our help?” But I was sure that there was a coded meaning behind this speech, which eluded me because I could not translate their slang terms — for all I know, in their lingo, the word “help” may be synonymous with “street drugs.” So I prepared for the worst. The two thugs got out of their vehicle and asked again: “Do you need our help?” I said: “No! I don’t want to purchase any illegal substances; I’m a law-abiding citizen.” They seemed offended. I said: “Look, gentlemen, I don’t want any trouble.” Then I began to weep. Pleading for my life, I said: “Please don’t hurt me; I’m too young to die.” The thugs then shook their heads, got back into their Volkswagen and drove away.