Beacris

I've just returned from Beatrice, Nebraska, where my grandmother taught me bridge, so we can complete Warren Buffet and Charlie Munger's foursome. I also picked up sticks a summer storm had strewn across the lawn.

I'm moving soon to Berkeley, where the mayor maintains a population of worms on used coffee grounds. My apartment there is always cold. My grandfather kept telling this same story about his sister, reportedly rather ornery in her youth, protesting when her mother perched bows in her hair. It takes place on a plane, I think, during the years directly following World War II.

She: Where are you FROM?
They: Germany.
She: West Germany or EAST GERMANY?
They: We are from the Democratic Republic of Germany.
She: Is that EAST GERMANY?
They: Yes.
She: How did you GET OUT??
They: We are diplomats.
She: Are you COMMUNISTS?

What I like about this story is that every line seems to be the punchline, and any of several lines have served this purpose in various tellings, but none is especially satisfying, nor do they seem to have a cumulative effect; yet everyone laughs softly and knowingly afterwards.