“Thank you. I understand that my driver’s license is from another state, and that you’re having difficulty locating my birth date because in Indiana we don’t put it where you put it here in Idaho.

“I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced you—made you pull out your glasses, interrupted your flow of waiting on the locals, who, according the birthday pie with the numbered candles you just brought out, are practically halfway across the Styx.

“I appreciate your observation that my photo ‘kind of looks like’ me. I had it taken four years ago and, although Indiana licenses are good for six years, all that’s changed since then is my hair. I admit I’m not totally familiar with Idaho’s hair conventions, but in Indiana sometimes people let their hair grow long and sometimes they dye it different colors, like brown or blonde.

“When you ask me to tell you my address, I figure what’s really happening is that you’re still trying to find my birth date, so I indulge your stalling. But the expiration date, seriously? I’m sleeping in a teepee tonight on your campground, and the only thing within fifty miles is a herd of sheep, which, as I’ve been told, are actually impossible to catch. Even if I were ten, what damage could I possibly do on one beer?

“And while I’m sure snagging a fake ID would’ve been to be the most exciting thing that’s happened to you since your family broke out of the potato business, it’s just not going to happen today.

“So, let me help you out. My birth date is right next to the photo and in green. See? 5-03-86. That date makes me a legal drinker everywhere in the western hemisphere. And no, I don’t know my driver’s license number or those extra four digits on my zip code.

“Not a bad inquisition, though. I mean, you might not hold snuff to the Tribunal of the Holy Office or the Russian border patrol who thought I didn’t look like my passport photo, but keep it up. I bet the locals just love you.”

What I actually said:

“Yeah, I think it expires in 2013.”