During an attack of laryngitis I lost my voice completely for two days. To help me communicate with him, my husband devised a system of taps.
One tap meant, “Give me a kiss,” two taps meant “No,” three taps meant “Yes,” and 95 taps meant “Take out the garbage.”
The priest is repairing the church fence. A boy is standing nearby for a long while.
The priest asks him: “Do you want to speak with me, my son?”
“No, I’m just waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting to hear what a priest says when he hits his finger with a hammer.”
My wife and I were having lunch at a fashionable eatery in Annapolis when we noticed what looked like a familiar face at the next table. Screwing up my courage, I asked, “Excuse me. Aren’t you Marlin Fitzwater, the former White House press secretary?”
“Yes, I am,” he acknowledged, and graciously interrupted his lunch to talk to us.
As we were leaving the restaurant, I remarked to the hostess, “Do you know you have Marlin Fitzwater on the terrace?”
“I’m not sure about that,” she replied, “but we have Perrier and Evian at the bar.”