Last week we were having steak for dinner. My 19-year-old, home from college for the summer, searched the fridge for ketchup and pulled out a bottle of Heinz.
We don’t go through ketchup that quickly, so the bottle might have been pretty old. Phil squinted at it, trying to assess its color against his memories of ketchups past.
“What do you think?” he asked the room. “Does this look suspicious?”
I’m not great with colors, plus I hate ketchup. All of its shades look bad to me.
Not having any useful input to contribute, I opted for a joke: “Suspicious Heinz? Wasn’t that an Elvis Presley song?”
Nobody laughed.
I guess when one is experiencing lightning-fast witticisms such as mine, it can be hard to catch up.
My Track Record 
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