I’m not really good at much if you want know the truth. There are a handful of things, though, I can do sort of well. Driving is one of them. When I was in college, I street-raced for money and since those early days, I’ve racked up over 1,000,000 miles. Then there’s storytelling; it’s to the point where I can never really just simply say anything; there’s always the story. And the third thing, well I can’t tell you about the third thing, but Sheldon Cooper famously called it the dance with no pants. And then there’s jokes; anything from spitballing one liners and impromptu Abbott and Costello exchanges to the setup with the hook and tall-tales which turn down that hidden side street.
When I was about nineteen, we’d circle the cars and trade jokes until one yawn would topple us on our sides like dominoes. We didn’t have much but looking back, we had it all. Then there was her. She was a brown-eyed-girl and she loved my jokes; she’d watch me tell them to our friends on campus and when Friday would come, we’d split and I’d watch her go. When Monday would come around she’d say, “my friends didn’t like your joke.” I’d ask her which one and she’d tell me - I’d think for a second - I’d tell the joke again, and she’d laugh - I’d have her tell me - and it wasn’t the same - and she was so convinced that it was - then I’d go again, and she’d laugh, again - then she’d go, and it was just, off. And either she thought she was killing it, or she was trying not to. But she made me smile and I’d kneel and beg to hear it again.
