. . . and he asks the bartender, “Ya got any corn?” Bartender says, “No.” Duck says, “Okay,” and walks out of the bar.
The next day the duck walks back into the bar, asks the bartender, again, “Got any corn?” The bartender responds, “No, I told you I don’t have any corn.” The duck leaves.
The third day, the duck walks into the bar again, asks for corn, and this time the bartender says, “No, I don’t have any corn, and the next time you come back and ask me that, I’m going to nail your feet to the floor!” So the duck says, “Okay,” and walks out.
On the fourth day, the duck returns, asks the bartender, “Ya got any nails?” Bartender says “No.” Duck says, “Got any corn?” ————————————————————————————-
SORRY! Forces beyond my control made me do that. I must have been channeling my dad, king of jokes and shaggy dog stories. As for me, I rarely tell jokes because I do it so badly. I was a lot better at it when I was a kid. Has adulthood wrung all of the fun out of me?
Actually, no. But I have to confess, I was a lot funnier when I drank. A few years ago I had some friends from work who liked to party on the weekends. One had a nice ceramic fire pit in her enclosed patio, and she was not only an awesome cook, but a hardcore weekend binge drinker (something I discovered as I got to know her). So there was always great food (she made a killer cioppino), a lot of wine, and this group of wise-ass disgruntled county mental health professionals who liked to sit around, get a buzz on, and be sarcastic. (Buncha cynical government employees . . . )
And there was a time–shall we say in the early days of the fire pit gatherings–when the ordinarily shy me transmogrified into a drunken deadpan smart-ass, and somehow brought my companions to their knees (sometimes even literally) in helpless laughter. I do tend to become a bit of the jokester if I’m drinking in the company of those I know well and with whom I feel safe. The other obvious part of the equation is that everyone else with me was drunk, and drunken people have a much lower threshhold for just about everything, especially drunken humor (or some semblance of it).
Eventually I burned out on this behavior, in part because–unlike some of my co-worker/friends of that time–I was not a heavy drinker. I finally walked away from it after one evening when the proprietress of the fire pit and the sublime cooking, in her sodden state, said some things to me that she shouldn’t have, and for which she never apologized.
These days I drink a glass of wine a couple of times a month, usually when I go out to dinner. As a young adult I went through a few phases of heavier drinking, usually related to stressful events. My work has shown me everything I ever needed to know about alcoholism and drug addiction, and I’ve seen plenty of things I never wanted to, like young kids being abandoned by their addict parent(s), left to fend for themselves and become de facto parents to their younger siblings.
Recently a client told me about childhood memories of people with guns in her home, seeing someone die in her living room, and watching one of her mom’s drug buddies going through heroin withdrawal. My client is an adult now, with children of her own, and she still weeps when she talks about raising her younger brothers, never knowing if or when her mother might come home.
But I digress. Or do I? How did I start with a dumb duck joke and end up here? Strange meanderings on an Easter Sunday evening . . .
Bedtime calls in dulcet tones.
Oh yeah, and let’s not forget
THE MK COUNTDOWN:
T-minus 10 days and counting!