Nobody's Fault But Mine

Forty-five, fifty miles per hour. Three police cars in tow. Lights flashing. Sirens blaring. This old truck I brought for work is perfect--for work. As a getaway car, it leaves much to be desired. I think I'm going to jail. Yet my foggy logic tells me that if I just keep on truckin' like nothing's wrong, those police officers may just give up and let me go on my merry way. (Fat chance!) At any rate, as long as I'm moving, they can't get me.