Johny Blood Tells A Joke

There’s a little cafeteria at work and though I don’t eat there often I did the other day. The woman in front of me, Doreen from Human Resources, ordered a hot dog with everything on it--onions? pickles? --The works! (though since they have neither kraut nor smothered onions nor even Dijon mustard, I don’t know if it could really be called the works). I could feel it welling up in me, I knew she wouldn’t think it was funny, but it’s just this corny tuba player streak, finally I fought it down and resisted, but it’s like feeling a sneeze coming on, like having to pee, like a song stuck in your head--bright are the stars that shine/dark is the sky/I know this love of mine/ blee blee blah blah/ bla-bla blee-blee, like having a smart riposte a day too late (Yr mama didn’t seem to have any trouble with back-end processing). I managed not to say it but it’s burning me up inside. Sorry, I know it’s stupid but did you hear about the Zen hot dog vendor? He’ll make you one with everything. That’s right. Ha-ha. Thanks, I feel better now. Yeah. One with everything. Good one.