Page played a guy hanging out with a bunch of his pals at a bar, who puts "Drivers License" on the jukebox, much to the surprise of a few of his gruff friends.
"Sounds like some teen girl singing in her room with a piano," Mikey Day's pool player opines.
"That's the beauty of it," Page shoots back. "You got a problem?"
Slowly, each of the men in the bar begin to admit their appreciation for the catchy, emotional tune, debating its true meaning and how they relate to the break-up that is the focus of the powerful lyrics.
"It's like she ripped a page out of my diary," Beck Bennett says, before trying to look tough again. "I mean, notebook. I mean ,plain brown leather. I can't read or write."
As hard as they try to deny their true feelings, none of the bar goers can maintain their facade when the bridge hits, and they finally give in, singing together, arms around each other's shoulders as the song blasts over the bar speakers.