A long, long time ago, when I was nineteen or twenty, I went to a bar with an older friend. The guy at the door asked for my ID. I gave him my driver’s license, which of course had my date of birth printed on it.
He looked at it and said, “You have to be twenty-one to get in here.”
I replied, “That ID is a few years old.”
He looked at it again for a moment, then said, “Oh, OK” and let me in.
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