Paul went by the local tire shop Saturday to pay for a flat he’d had fixed on the farm truck. There was a full waiting room, so he was happy he was just there to hand over payment.
He deflated, though, when he pulled out his wallet. “Oh, no,” he said. “They sent us new debit cards and I don’t know which one is the farm account. I don’t dare use the house one.”
“Well,” the woman behind the counter said, “you could just use the one where your wife wrote FARM on the back in black marker.”
Accompanied by muffled snorting from the peanut gallery, he turned the card over. “Cool!” he said, and laid it on the counter.
“Oh look,” she said. “It’s on the front, too.”
“Huh,” Paul said. “How ’bout them Indians?”