Last Thanksgiving, in my wife's hometown back east, my whole in-law family was somewhere between pie and a tryptophan-induced nap when, for the first time all day, a silence fell over the gathering.
Everyone was feeling contemplative and grateful. But my wife's aunt couldn't bear a pause in any conversation. All silences had to be filled.
"Does anyone know any jokes?" she asked. Eyes rolled.
But, mind you, this was less than a month after Halloween, the busiest holiday on our street, so I was chock-full of gut busters.
"I heard a good Halloween joke," I said. All eyes turned to me.
"A priest, an imam and a rabbit walk into a bar," I said. The adult relatives looked at me dubiously. The children looked expectantly, excited for the punchline. "The bartender looks at a rabbit and says, 'I think you're a typo.'" The adults' dubious expressions grew. The kids waited for the punchline.
I could feel my face blushing. "Because the rabbit is like rabbi, just with an extra T. A typo."
I was the only goy at the table, which added an additional layer to the quickly accumulating layers of embarrassment and regret. This was technically an all-Abrahamic faith joke, right?
I looked at my wife's cousin who had a goofy grin on his face. "We get it," he said. "But what does that have to do with Halloween?"
"What?"
"You said it was a Halloween joke."
That's right, I thought. No one does that but us. I looked to my wife, the St. Louisan back in her hometown.
"Can you explain it to them?"
She waved the question away. Some things about the Lou are beyond explanation.
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