She once asked me why I insisted on making my own jokes and puns which, she informed me at the time, were frankly not that good, and there were lots of jokes and puns and limericks available from ‘current publications’ (this conversation transpired one weekend afternoon as she and I smoked cigarettes and before the internetz wuz invented and “social media” was a visit to the pub or chippy and “facebook” was a verb, not a noun, and people used to have impromptu sex in the afternoon to kill time) from which I could obtain “jokes of quality” and I informed her that it’s an Art that one must pursue with a certain swagger in contrast to when Hemingway bored us in “For Whom the Bell Tolls” with that insipid post-coital pillow talk (she loved Donne’s poetry, specifically the love poems, to wit:
“Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are” and not when he got all pious and shit, so I had to do throw that in).
“Case in point,” I said to her. “Remember this morning when you tapped your soft-boiled egg and you were splattered by the egg’s contents?”
She nodded, but said: “I fail to see the relevance to this particular discussion.”
“Well,” I said, “one could say the yolk was on you!”
And I followed that up with a rapid fire statement that an electrician’s fav egg dish is an “ohmlette” at which point she pinched me and mentioned something about electric ants in the bed.
I laughed and began reciting a naughty limerick (is there any other kind, I ask you!) to her until she interrupted me with a brief kiss that left me totally scrambled, and, as we would later discover, the table held our collective weight despite us.
Like I’ve always said: sometimes you’ve gotta break a few eggs to have sex.
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