Stolen Plates

Shortly after moving to Las Vegas, we ended up at the local police substation to report a tiny little incident involving a neighborhood boy who threatened to “get my uncle’s gun and kill your dad” comment to my then 14 year old daughter. (Being new to the area we had no idea that this was customary conversation from kids and there was no need to report it.)

While waiting in a line with 15 other people for over 2 hours, the girl standing in line next to me asked, “Why are you here? And you might as well tell me because you’ll have to tell the officer anyway and we’ll all hear.” And she was absolutely right as the officer periodically went down the line asking each person why they were there in order to have the opportunity to turn them away after they waited the requisite one hour.

The girl then calmly explained that “someone stole my plates.” She said it was the second time it had happened in six months and she was “tired of dealing with it.”

When we got home, my 12 year old son told his dad, “Can you believe this lady went to the police because someone stole her plates? Couldn’t she just buy new ones at Walmart?”

Yeah, I’d definitely go to the police if someone stole my Corelle.

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