We arrived an hour late to the Editor's Dinner,
due to an early fall of cottage cheese.
My date decided not to come in
and went swimming in the koi
pond instead.
Senior writer Betsy McKay was at the podium,
giving the newspaper editors a piece of her
mind.
She used a lot of big words,
maybe Celtic,
so I won't quote her.
But after her speech the room stayed
silent.
So silent you could hear a face fall.
Since I hadn't gotten there in time
for my salmon dinner, which I had
paid for, I began gobbling bread
sticks. They made a loud crunching
noise.
Ms. McKay looked at me in annoyance.
But I was hungry, so I kept munching.
I'm not afraid of journalists.
I've got nothing to hide.
I pay my taxes and never stay
out late.
But then again, why antagonize
someone with juice?
So I stuffed a handful of bread sticks
into my coat pocket and left quietly.
The next day the Russian financial
crisis began.
You couldn't even give away a Russian.
Ms. McKay covered the whole thing
magnificently in the Wall Street Journal.
And I finished off the bread sticks
with a fine bottle of Citronella.
So I figure we're even.
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