. . . we talked and laughed about real characters we have known in our lives. One of those individuals was a fellow we both were acquainted with. This gentleman is somewhat verbally challenged, or, in plain lingo, he is tongue-tied. This elicited a old joke from Michelle in her best mimic voice.
“I wanna dwink!” said a thirsty young man upon entering a barroom.
Looking up for a moment, the bartender ignored the man and went on washing his glasses.
“Hey you, baatendaa,” the young man repeated with mounting anger. “I said I wanna dwink!”
Again, the bartender continued his work, acting as if he heard nothing.
Finally, the irate young man stormed from the barroom and out the door.
“Hey, why didn’t you serve that guy?” asked a stranger standing nearby.
“Are you cwazy!” replied the bartender. “That’s just asking fo twouble!”
And of course, last night after going to bed I dreamed that I was tongue-tied. Never did figure out if my tongue had been eaten up by cancer or had been cut out and fed to dogs by savages because I cursed the morals of their mothers. Whatever the cause, I was more than tongue-tied—I didn’t even have a tongue to be tied.
In the dream, a fwiend who I hadn’t seen in yeahs came up and asked how I was doing? His name was Wichard Wight. So ashamed was I of my speech impediment that I would not answer him, but just merely shook my head, yes or no. Finally, his fwiendly pleas wore me down and I began to answer his questions (wemember folks, this is a dweam). He asked who my all-time favorite actor was:
“Wobert Wedford, of course. Especially the 'Gweat Gatsby'.
"Who is your favorite cowboy?
“Woy Wogers, natuwally, and his wonda hoss, ‘Twigga.’
“The ‘Gippa,’ Wonald Weagan.
"Favorite band leader?
"What do you like to eat?
“Wabbit food, mostly . . . you know, cawwots, bwoccowi, waddishes.
“Yes, I still wuv to twavel.,” I said. “Befo the wevowutions I wiked to twavel in North Afwica awot. Now, I just stick to Europe since it’s saafa. You know, Wonden, Wome, maybe Wussia."
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