Two older fellows who were seated at our table were quickly nicknamed “The Vaudeville Brothers” by Sean and me because of their habit of telling non-stop old-timey jokes of increasingly questionable taste. One introduced the two of them as “the thermometer brothers: I’m Oral and he’s Anal!”

On the second or third night, the older fellow was telling a joke whose punch line featured simulated but enthusiastic male masturbation while reciting a poem “Hickory Dickory Dock”. After the long-winded set-up, he got to the unfortunate punch line just as our wonderful waitress Sorvina (from Romania) was trying to place a bowl of soup in front of him.

His first stroke struck the plate beneath the soup with such force that the bowl flew into the air, spilling its contents on his pants, his chair, and somewhat on her. There was a clatter of dishes and the whole table went silent as we realized we were witnessing something most unfortunate.

The resulting mutual apologies and wave of seriousness was palpable, and a senior restaurant manager came by later to add to the stew of sorry.

I must admit to wanting to hear the punch line to the joke even though I knew it would be especially anti-climactic given the circumstance. My wish was granted when after what seemed to be too short a period of mourning, he backed up a couple lines and delivered the finale.

It might have been just my imagination, but it seemed that Sorvina exhibited a little post-tramautic stress disorder when serving our table for the rest of the night. Or perhaps it was just well-placed caution.

The joke is more or less this one.