A lot of times
when I try to say something funny, what I get is blank stares. Then a
lot of other times I'll say in all seriousness something that is,
apparently, just an absolute hoot. That's what I've been told,
anyway. Absolute hoot. Upon what do I not have my finger? The pulse,
that's what. Fortunately, somebody always shows up to tell me about
kombucha or Kneebody or Jeff Lint. Somebody whose weltanschauung is
more aligned with the zeitgeist. Otherwise I could not participate in
any reasonably contemporary colloquy; as it is, I still often just
nod and bluff.
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2 comments:
I clearly remember singing that beloved Negro spiritual at hootenannies: “Kombucha, my lord, kombucha…”
Or is it Japanese theater? I’m so confused!
No, wait. It’s Polish sausage. Of course. We had it for breakfast every Easter while I was growing up.
Sorry. I just remembered. It's that anise-flavored Italian liqueur.
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