Sunday Picayune, n.d. The mince pie joke ostensibly plays off this closing speech by Prospero in The Tempest:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
The hairpin gag eludes me entirely.
2 Comments
Perhaps the hairpin gag has something to do with the “part” in someone’s hair?
And having made my own mince pie this Thanksgiving, I have to say I deeply – one might say, gastrointestinally – understand the quite substantial fabric of that delicacy.
Perhaps the hairpin gag has something to do with the “part” in someone’s hair?
Ah, I think you may have solved the riddle. Thanks.
And having made my own mince pie this Thanksgiving, I have to say I deeply – one might say, gastrointestinally – understand the quite substantial fabric of that delicacy.
You did the whole megillah, with the beef and the suet and all?