Part One of this story: We always enjoy going to our church's annual fish fry on Fridays during Lent. I admit that the fish fry doesn't make a lot of sense from a religious perspective. I mean, it's hardly a sacrificial, solemn observance of Lent, seeing as it involves piles of fried shrimp, french fries, chocolate cake, and beer. If you have to dine out in a church gymnasium and use plastic forks to eat food from cafeteria trays with a bunch of senior citizens, this is the place to be. It started last night, but we decided to hold off on going until later in the season, because the fish fry usually gets pretty crowded and wild on the first Friday of Lent. Well, as wild as a church fish fry can get.
Part Two of this story: Jay hurt his back shoveling snow a few days ago and has been shuffling around like a little old man. Then there's me, with my millions of drugs and sleeping problems and 70-year-old bone marrow. "What are we?" said Jay. "Little old people? Pretty soon our only excitement will be things like the church fish fry."
"Wait a minute," I reminded him, "last night we decided not to go to the fish fry because it would be too exciting for us."
We thought about this for a minute.
"We can't tell anyone about this," Jay said.
"I'll put it on the blog," I said.