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An Ill-Advised Sandwich

Folks, you know you’re desperate for a meal when you’re making a sandwich, and have the following thought process:

‘Wow… this meat has been in the fridge for a while. It’s proooobably not good any more, but let’s see…

Eh, screw it — it’s not gonna kill me, right?‘

So, I spent the better part of the night fully expecting to projectile-hurl smoked turkey all over the room. Which, as I understand it, is usually seen as some sort of faux pas in most social circles. The ones where they don’t keep plastic tarps on the floor, anyway.

Which is not to say that I don’t travel in circles that require plastic on the floor, from time to time. But last night, I was in more polite company. Well, maybe not ‘polite’, exactly — it was a bunch of comics, after all — but neater, at least. Hoagie-hurling is still frowned upon, even in that crowd. Apparently, blowing chunks is only funny from a distance. Hey, I saw Meaning of Life; who would have guessed?

Anyway, the night was a good time — a few of us standups got together to critique ourselves and each other on a tape of a show we’d done earlier in the month. Constructively, of course — always constructively. It was helpful, too — and nice. There were only a couple of times when someone looked at me and said:

‘You know — every time you tell a joke, God kills a baby seal.‘

So yeah, it was a good night. It didn’t help much with the writing — considering that I’m writing this fourteen hours later and backdating it to Friday night — but hey, we can’t be Hemmingway every night, can we?

So… can we be Hemmingway just one night? Is that too much to ask?