Ill Wait for the State Trooper

In the middle of the night, a retired Marine is driving from Dallas to Houston, while an Army paratrooper is heading from Houston to Dallas. There’s not another car on the highway when they crash head-on, sending both trucks spinning off in opposite directions. Metal crunches, airbags pop, and everything goes silent.

The Marine climbs out of his wrecked pickup, looks at the twisted steel, and shakes his head. “Man… I’m lucky to be alive,” he mutters, brushing himself off. He can’t believe he walked away without a scratch.

The paratrooper crawls out of his SUV and stares at the damage. “I don’t know how I survived that,” he says, looking up at the sky. Both men realize it could’ve been a whole lot worse.

The Marine walks over and says, “You know, maybe this is a sign. Instead of teasing each other about which branch is tougher, maybe we ought to call it even and be friends.”

The paratrooper thinks for a second, then nods. “You’re right. Life’s too short.”

The Marine says, “Let me see if anything else survived.” He checks the back of his truck and finds a full, unopened bottle of good Kentucky bourbon. Holding it up, he grins. “Seems like another sign we should toast to our new friendship.”

“Well, I won’t argue with that,” the paratrooper laughs. He takes the bottle and drinks nearly half of it in one go. Wiping his mouth, he hands it back. “Smooth stuff. Your turn!”

The Marine calmly screws the cap back on the bottle and tucks it under his arm. “Nah,” he says with a smile. “I think I’ll wait for the state trooper.”