There I was, flying over Papua in a Piper Cub with Amelia Earhart and John Denver. Amelia piloted, I was the navigator, John sang. I was wearing my aviator glasses.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light! Surface-to-air missiles - We're hit! We're going down! The engine screamed. Amelia screamed. I screamed. John sang, "To live on the land we must learn from the sea."
Amelia snapped at him, "Quiet, you idiot! We're about to learn from the sea up close and personal, unless I can get this plane on the sand."
WHAM! We hit the beach with a deafening thud. A thousand, no, million billion, hundred ... anyway, you know, the thing ... pygmy cannibals ran from the jungle and surrounded us. With a terrifying cry, they opened the doors to the plane and pulled us out. John said, "Wait! My guitar!" So one of them retrieved his guitar.
They started a bonfire and filled a giant pot with water. One of them added a little salt.
"You might want to add a mirepoix, too," I suggested, "And a
bouquet garni, maybe?"
John said, "Yes, that would really fill up my senses."
The cannibals ignored our suggestions, and the water heated up. "When are you going to throw us into the pot?" I asked. "When I lived in the 'hood, the homies always brought the water to a boil, then added the protein, and reduced the temp to a simmer until the meat was tender. We all learned that at the local bodega, right after Jewish school. In Scranton. Around the time my son Beau stormed the beaches of Normandy."
The cannibal chief looked at me like I was nuts. "We're not going to cook
you, you stupid stringy-ass old white man. We're making pasta. But if you want a drink while we're waiting for it to cook, try some of this."
"Mmm," John said. "Misty taste of moonshine! Thank God I'm a country boy, yee haw."
