Oh, Mr. Murphy.

Why you chose to be a police officer and not a fucking detective is beyond me.

"What was going on at the coffee shop, Mr. Burda?"

"I was drinking coffee."

"Oh."

You solved that mystery, genius.
Then, you started busting out the big guns.

"What would you say if I brought out a drug dog?"

"You would find out that I really like dogs, and that you are wasting my time, and yours."

"Oh."

Oh!

Then I watched my tax dollars hard at work, as you glared at me angrily from the hood of your cop car for the next twenty minutes, not writing, speaking, or doing much of anything, really.

Then, Mr. Murphy, you walked over and gave me a ticket for an 'unsafe start.'
I feel truly safe with your cunning and quick wit patrolling the streets of Cupertino, ready to mumble 'oh...' at any discrepancy that you find yourself faced with.

Mr. Murphy, you make me question being a taxpayer altogether.

Oh!