By Tom Gazdag
The taco joint had a special machine, with a handle you could grab that measured your strength.
One day, while on line, I tried it.
The damn machine was full of deceit. “You’re pretty strong!” it shrieked. “FOR A CLOWN!!!”
There was this stifling silence. The workers behind the counter stared. The patrons, some mid-bite of a taco or chimichanga, stared. Some laughed. Others corked their faces in amused sympathy.
The next week I returned to again grapple the device. It declared that I possessed “HAMMER STRENGTH!”
As I looked around, the faces were unchanged.