Back in the late sixties and early 70s we gathered around our TV sets with the three available channels on Monday nights for Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in on NBC.
One of the repeated gags on the lightning-fast show was the old joke from the diner, “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup.” I remember in one episode, the waiter is behind the counter and seven or eight people sitting at the bar say, one right after another, “Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup.” Whoever was playing the waiter went down the counter, spewing out one punch line after another. Sorry, can’t find the YouTube clip for that, but it went something like this:
There’s a fly in your soup? Keep it down sir, or they’ll all be wanting one.
There’s a fly in your soup? Sorry sir, guess I forgot it when I removed the other three.
There’s a fly in your soup? Then we’ve served you too much soup, the fly should be wading.
There’s a fly in your soup? Couldn’t be, sir. The cook used them all in the raisin bread.
There’s a fly in your soup? It’s OK, Sir, there’s no extra charge!
There’s a fly in your soup? No sir, that’s a cockroach, the fly is on your steak.
There’s a fly in your soup? What do you expect? It’s fly soup.
Call me weird, but that’s one of the first things I thought of when I read the headline of the New York Daily News in the immediate wake of the devastating shootings in San Bernadino – yet another American city whose name has become synonymous with mass murder.
GOD ISN’T FIXING THIS, the headline blasted, riffing on and ripping the condolence statements of Republican presidential candidates. [click to continue…]
Dear Dad,
Daddy,
