You need no ticket to make a place for yourself here where humor, black and otherwise, comes to you from the stage where the human comedy itself is being played, its performance trumping the things dark and tragic and found in the world of literature.
A Clean Non-Bloody Place
Who knew that our waiter that night was going to be named Scorcese?
"My name is Marty," he (might) have said. "Please let me know if the soundtrack is to your liking. Just tell me." Continuing his staccato patter he said, "No, there are no cards for you to fill out, I became totally sick of them after a few preview audiences dissed me on them over a couple of my...er, the, ah....appetizers."
"Hmm, Scorcese; interesting," I said to my dinner companion as Marty turned his attention away from us to a hulking brute two tables away who was gazing quizzically at his escargot. "We should be in for quite a floor show tonight. And by floor show, you know I mean..."
My companion, who'd been distracted by something in the near distance turned back to me and said. "Are you talkin' to me?"
"Yes," I said. "You're the only one here, right?"
"I was just being impressed," she said, "by how clean it is here. It's a clean, non-bloody place."
"Well," I said. "I think we are in luck tonight because..."
With that the maitre d' came out from behind the podium with a baseball bat in his hand.
"This is the way we do it in Chicago," he said to no one in particular as a soprano entertaining a private party of shmata magnates behind a DaVinci style privacy curtain hit a blood curdling high C.
"Manayunk will never be the same," offered my companion with a resigned smile that almost made me forget about the grey matter that had just landed on my salad plate.