BroJoe avoids incarceration

[Zeroman]

 

[Ha Ha Ha Holeee Shit!]

Him saying he’s a really good guitarist should have been reason enough to sobriety check him.

 

[Zeroman]

Him saying he’s a really good guitarist should have been reason enough to sobriety check him.

“WHAT ARE YOU PLAY”

Book ‘em Danno.

 

[Saddam Hussein]

He’s incapable of human interaction without bragging or some sort of arrogance. No shame about accepting a sum equal to the average American salary for decades from his brother.

I grow weary of Patrick. We need a Joe posting revival. Joe needs to be reminded of his welfare-existence daily. His undeserved confidence and entitlement must be checked. I hate that he lives his life with no shame and thinking that his comforts and luxuries are all well earned

 

[Dummy Gaynuts]

You wouldn't detain Guitarzan, would you officer?

 

[RoSmokedCrack]

View attachment 147750View attachment 147749

Joe:
"I'm really good, good enough to get paid a lot of money to do it."

Officer:
"Yeah? Why have I pulled you over in a decade old Fiat 500 then?"

Joe:

 

[CruisinColin]

I thought I was numb to Joe Cumia but holy fuck he really is an arrogant cunt.

 

[HipTuckerCumia]

- Hello capitalizing bootlicker
- Hello Officer
- What are you play?
- To guitar
- Ok
- LOL

 

[HipTuckerCumia]

This 100% reads like he was typing it while driving.

 

[guest]

Madison Square Vegetable Garden

 

[TheGhostOfAbeVigoda]

"Keep your eyes open, people."

Or maybe just don't drink and drive and you have nothing to worry about.

The older and less niggerish I get, the more I think of the line in Liar Liar where Jim Carrey's one delinquent client calls asking for legal advice and he just takes the phone and screams "STOP BREAKING THE LAW, ASSHOLE!" and hangs up.

 

[1950'sSpaceProgram]

"Keep your eyes open, people."

Or maybe just don't drink and drive and you have nothing to worry about.

The older and less niggerish I get, the more I think of the line in Liar Liar where Jim Carrey's one delinquent client calls asking for legal advice and he just takes the phone and screams "STOP BREAKING THE LAW, ASSHOLE!" and hangs up.

And if some drunk plowed into his kid and killed her, he'd be screaming at the top of his lungs it should be a capital offense.

 

[bantadant]

Guess Joe wasn't larping as his daughter for once

 

[guest]

This thread got me good. I wish Joe was more prolific because he is a goldmine of retardation.

 

[satanssockpuppet]

And then the totally awe stricken, star-struck cop let Joe go, as he knew he was in the presence of greatness. Uh-huh. That happened.

 

[Wa4892]

If you asked Joe Walsh if he was a good guitar player I'm guessing he'd say something like "I'm good enough to make a few bucks doing it."

Joe Cumia on the other hand needs to tell a stranger he's so good he makes a LOT of money doing it. All the while, the truth is if it weren't for Anthony's subsidy and - I'm guessing - Carol supplying medical benefits, Joe would probably be eligible for welfare.

 

[ChildSpitTake]

"Hey, aren't you that guy that was dating Milla Jovovich for a while? You're free to go, sir!"

 

[Slackjawed Cow]

He still thinks he is famous. Amazing.

 

[HipTuckerCumia]

THE NIGHT had a chill to it, a darkness that seemed to seep into Joe's bones as he gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel of his vintage '68 Mustang. The engine purred beneath the hood like a caged beast waiting for its moment to strike. He was just another shadow on Main Street Amagansett, a man wrapped in a cigarette haze and a fedora pulled low over his eyes. As Joe's car crept through the dimly lit streets, he could see the flashing red and blue lights up ahead, the beacon of authority that marked the dreaded sobriety checkpoint. He let out a low, resigned sigh, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipated into the inky night. He had no worries about his sobriety; it was the routine of it all that grated on his nerves. Pulling up to the checkpoint, Joe rolled down his window, revealing his chiseled jawline and a hint of stubble. He met the gaze of the cop standing there, a man named Michael, who had the look of a war-weary veteran, eyes like steel and a jawline to match. Joe couldn't help but notice that there was something more to Michael than met the eye, a weariness that spoke of a life lived on the edge. "Evening, officer," Joe muttered, his voice a gravelly baritone that hinted at a past filled with secrets. He reached into his glove compartment, producing the necessary documentation, and handed it over without a word. Michael, a man of few words himself, took the documents and studied them under the glow of a nearby streetlamp. His eyes flicked up to Joe's face, and something passed between them—a shared understanding that went beyond the usual cop-and-citizen encounter. "You play?" Michael asked, nodding at the guitar case propped up on the passenger seat. Joe glanced at the instrument, his fingers itching for the strings. "Yeah," Joe replied, his voice softening as he realized he might have found a kindred spirit in this hardened officer. "Electric. Blues mostly." Michael's stern expression cracked into a faint smile, revealing the hint of a dimple on his rugged cheek. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "I play too, man. Gibson Les Paul, vintage '59." Joe's eyes widened with genuine surprise and intrigue. In that moment, the darkness of the night seemed to fade away, replaced by the spark of a connection, an understanding that transcended the badges they wore. Two men, bound by a common love for music in a world that often felt too harsh. As Michael handed back Joe's documents, he hesitated for a moment, then spoke again, his tone changed, softer. "You strike me as a man of your word, Joe, and I trust my instincts. You're good to go. No need for a sobriety test tonight." Joe nodded in appreciation, his respect for the cop growing. "Thanks, Michael. You're all right for a man in blue." With a nod of mutual understanding, Joe rolled up his window and eased his Mustang back onto the darkened streets of Amagansett. The night swallowed him whole, but he drove with a newfound sense of camaraderie, knowing that sometimes, even in the darkest of places, you could find a kindred soul who saw the world through the same six strings and a love for the blues. --- In the solitary, perilous hours of the night, Michael's thoughts often drift back to that encounter with Joe. The memory of their connection lingering like a haunting melody, echoing through the chambers of his mind. As he patrolled the empty streets, he sometimes wondered if he should have done more. But he was a cop, a guardian of the law, and the lines between duty and desire were as unforgiving as the streets he patrolled. Yet, as he watched the stars twinkle in the vast, haunting sky, Michael couldn't deny the unspoken truth that appeared in the corners of his mind like a ghost. In the lonely hours of the night, he couldn't help but wonder if he should have taken a chance, if he should have let the darkness fall away, and in that stolen moment, kissed Joe.

Thank you, language model bot.

 

[Queefer Sutherland]

A musician that doesn't drink? That's like a veteran who didn't serve.