A customer comes up to me – a customer service rep at a supermarket – with a can of table salt.
LATE FOR THE TRAIN: This guy usually drives up the road around midnight in a car whose muffler has seen better days, with high beams on looking for an empty site. Drives around two or three times, finally settles on site across the road. Proceeds to fire up at least two Coleman kerosene lanterns, creating daylight conditions for 30 yards in each direction.
Back in the 50s when I was in Jr. High in Los Altos, the town had a Dad’s Club for men. Their main purpose was to put on a charitable musical revue each year called the Fathers’ Frolics. The cast was liberally filled with well-known local businessmen, teachers, doctors and regular dads. I really enjoyed going to these and watching these normally-staid and serious men display their musical and comedic
“You fellas might remember that I was sent over to the IBM facility in Croydon, south of London” I began, as the customary reprobates were sitting around our usual table in The Scruffy Dog. Today there was Little Joe, still hiding from the sheriff, Lois, our guardian angel who helped keep the tone polite, Shortie, who worked at the Bar None ranch out of town and who was sloughing off