It occurs to me that I’ve been trying to build a story out of a single joke for a couple of long posts now,  not drawing any closer to the punchline, which upon long (and, o Lord, how long) reflection strikes me as unfunny, even stupid; and I’ve decided I’m like a guy who’s fallen off the deck of the Lusitania, who manages nearly to swim even with it as the torpedo rips through the waterline.

So I’ve decided to cut straight to the punchline, and you, the crew of the lifeboat, can decide whether I climb aboard, or there’s not room for both me and lady Astor’s giant arse, and I get the mercy stroke with an oarhandle instead.

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The Punchline.

Me, my wife, and our Brit acquaintance are sitting at a bar very popular with lesbian, transgender and gay kids  (the average age is about25). Our friend has been strangely obtuse this evening. He is also on the ragged edge of a protracted bender. We have brought him here, against his strenuous objections, to get something to eat. It is a nice restaurant and the wait staff is very cordial, and there’s a punk girrl band ripping through Sex Pistols and Buzzcocks covers (They may even be called the Buzzcunts) which has the added bonus of periodically drowning out our friend’s now very convoluted harangue about how there is no such thing as lesbianism, there is only a kind of postadolescent female fetishization of masculinity which manifests itself in the lean muscular woman with a crewcut at the next table, who, if looks mean anything, is preparing to walk over to our table and feed our friend his balls.

Suddenly, the band cranks up again, and our friend shouts that he is out of cigarettes. He walks to the bar and returns with a whiskey, and notifies us the kitchen is closed and there are no more cigarettes  at the bar, either. My wife says he can ask one of “the postadolescents” for a cigarette, but he demurs. She correctly decides he is afraid of the lesbians and gets up to go snake a few off one of the many couples enjoying a slow, lascivious dance to “I am an antichrist!”

I have been listening to this guy rant for half an hour about the nonexistence of lesbians at what is undeniably a majority lesbian venue. And I’ve been staring at him. Dumbstruck.

As my wife gets up to bum the smokes, I suddenly know what to say.

“Make sure you don’t get the pussy flavored ones, honey.”

Our friend turns to me, and hisses “You’re manic!”

THE END

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Here are some more pictures of mules:

What a handsome creature. I'm speaking of course, about the mule.

What a handsome creature. I'm speaking of course, about the mule.

Sweet Jane

Sweet Jane

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