Pie

Out of the blue, the priest I had spoken with at the gay pride party called me up.  This priest was on a judging panel for Best Apple Pie at a local apple festival.  One of the other judges had become ill and they were desperate for a local citizen of stature to take her place.

Yes, you heard right. Somehow I had become one of the fancy citizens, worthy of judging apple pies. Even if people had never heard of The Residents, word was out that I had traveled all over the world, presumably tasting apple pie wherever I went.  Surprisingly enough, I did like apples so that perception was not entirely wrong. I ate apples almost every day.  Around here, roadside stands sold them in front of the orchards they came from. Delicious, no pun intended.

The event was great country folk fun.  The pies? They were the best I have ever eaten. There were three judges. A priest, a rabbi, and a Bobuck.  I asked if they wanted to go to a bar after the judging, but no one laughed.  

 Comedy has fallen to such a sad state.