Jokes are good. They’re easy to digest. Easy to follow. People relate to a joke. Nobody relates to a guy in beat up clothes sitting on the far end of an empty bar with a drink he’s not drinking. Nobody wonders why he’s staring at the touch screen jukebox even though it’s been playing Fly Like An Eagle on repeat for the last half an hour. Why he won’t go out to see the fireworks. Why he spends his off hours building watches in the dark, carving the same face in gold plate over and over and over and over and over. Nobody sees the old photos of a girl named Sarah from all those years ago, back when the little creek ran through the center of the wheat fields, the shadows of minnows ran dark against the warm brown of the mud and the laughter of two teenagers echoed out across the midwestern farmland.
He tells a joke. “Know why I smell so good?”
"Old spice, motherfuckers."