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 John's Diner°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°The One Liner°°°°°°°°°°°°°°by Thomas Diffenbach
 ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß

          In a dark booth in the back of John's Diner sat two men.
     The blonde wore an expression of grim determination, and held a
     mostly clean plastic spatula.  The other wore an expression of
     mixed shame and fear, and opened his mouth to speak:
     
          "So, (bearing in mind)"
     
          RAP!  The man with the spatula neatly rapped the speaker
     under the chin with spatula, closing his mouth.
     
          The curly-haired brunette began again, "So the thing is..."
     He paused and glanced imploringly at the spatula-wielder, but to
     no avail.
     
          RAP!  Once again, the blonde flicked his wrist and the
     spatula sailed up with almost mechanical precision, its arc
     terminating at the speaker's chin.
     
          The blonde sighed.  The brunette fished in his pocket for a
     pack of cigarettes, and with trembling hands lit a Marlboro.  He
     inhaled greedily.
     
          "Ok, let's try again," said the blonde.
     
          The brunette, afraid to speak, nodded, and then began.  He
     opened his mouth, closed it, sucked on his cigarette, and then
     held up his free hand as if to signal, "Halt!"  (Although, in his
     hands, it was more a signal of "Halt?")
     
          The blonde nodded and asked, "Yeah, what?"
     
          The brunette assayed a meek smile.  "Uh, what am I
     responding to?"
     
          The blonde began to recite something in a sing-song voice, as
     if for the nth + 1 time.
     
          The white robed fellow at the bar grimaced and looked away
     from this peculiar tableaux, and turned to Lucia Chambers, who
     was currently burdened with a parrot, a plate of mini-burgers,
     and what looked like an electric cattle prod leashed to a hip
     holster.
     
          The white robed gentleman turned to Lucia with a look of
     tired horror on his face, and said, "What's going on back there,
     it's horrible and hateful and harmful; that one guy keeps
     slapping the other with a spatula!
     
          Lucia sighed.  "That's been going on all day.  The kid asked
     for it, Franchot.
     
          Franchot Lewis drew himself up in his white robe, and leaned
     a little harder on the cane he'd nicknamed "Moral Indignation."
     Lucia Chambers seemed unaware of the building storm arising from
     Franchot's love of his Fellow Man and great desire for Justice.
     
          "ASKED for it?!  How can you say that Lucia?  A boy is being
     _beaten_ in your diner, you say it's been going on for hours, and
     you do nothing?  That's what is wrong with America today!
     Inhumanity..."
     
          Franchot trailed off as he saw Lucia tap her fingers on her
     cattle prod.
     
          Lucia sighed.  "Franchot, I mean Tom asked for it, he asked
     Michael to teach him how to respond with succinct one-liners.  Is
     it my fault Tom is too obstinately bull-headed to learn and
     assimilate through the means of traditional and established
     pedagogical methodology?"
     
          As Lucia finished speaking, the spatula whizzed through the
     air, and hit her under the chin.
     
          Lucia sighed and shook her head.  Damned users, they always
     took the joke too far.
     
                                  -end-
                 Copyright (c) 1993 Thomas Paul Diffenbach