Not a recipie…Um, that’s not the point
This story is from NYT Metropolitan Diary (22-June 1988). I remember thinking it was hysterical back then.
I just found it online, and I’m surprised how accurately I remember it.
I think of it every time someone fails to “get” the point of a story:
The scene: a men’s room in the Federal Building, downtown Manhattan. The cast of three: Ben Ruggiero; another fellow taking a smoke break, and an acquaintance who dashes in, out of breath and agitated.
You won’t believe this, the breathless man begins. I was almost killed on the way to work this morning.
He pants and goes on:
I had just walked out of the deli where I buy an egg sandwich every morning.
A police car with its sirens and lights on was chasing another car down the street. The police car rammed the other car and stopped it. The guys in both cars tumbled out. There was shouting, ordering, threats. Guns were drawn. For crying out loud, shots were fired!
I was right in the line of fire. I could hear the bullets whiz right over my head.
Garbage pails were knocked over, glass shattered, cars and trucks mounted the sidewalk to get to safety.
I tell you I’m lucky to be alive!
Obviously concerned, the quiet smoker finally speaks.
You eat an egg sandwich every morning?
