I-84. Once you get past the Danbury mess, the Newtown mess awaits.

The state flag should be drawn on one of those portable message signs. Maybe have the flag vanish so it can show the message “To Exit 10, 7 miles, 25 minutes.”

And, no, sitting in traffic on the way to Worcester doesn’t count as your toll. Pay up, Massholes.

I wrote this on my phone while laying in bed. This was a stream of consciousness rather than a polished masterpiece.

A man is sitting in a diner, onto his third cup of coffee. As he takes a sip, a woman joins him in the booth. “Good morning, Jerry. Wow, you look horrible. You been sleeping well?”

“No, Elaine. I’m supposed to be asleep right now. I’m been seeing a vampire.”

“Ohhh.” Elaine covers her mouth with the crook of her elbow. “Does she vant to suck your blood?”

“I—“ Jerry yawns. “You know, that’s a conversation we need to have.”

“Necking went out of style in the 50’s.”

“Plus, my doctor says my blood pressure is high. If she bites in, what if she can’t stop? What if it’s like chomping into a firehose?”

Elaine was about to squirt some ketchup onto her plate, but decides not to.

“So, you want some tickets to my show tomorrow? I’ve got some comps left.”

“Nope, can’t do it.”

“What? Why not? I’ve got a great bit about those centaurs they discovered in Central Park.”

“Full moon, Jerry.”

“Oh, you don’t mean…”

“Yup. He’s a werewolf. I’ve got to go all the way down to Gowanus to get some titanium for the cage he ordered.”

The door bell rings as another patron enters. Dripping wet, he dashes clumsily toward the table, nearly bumping into the hostess on the way. No sooner than he sits down, he starts talking. “You know, you can’t take titanium on the subway.”

Elaine sighs loudly. “Come on, Kramer. Are there magnet people now?”

“They’re coming. I’ve got it marked on my calendar. Exactly three months from now.”

“Great, another full moon.”

“Say, Kramer,” says Jerry, “I couldn’t help but notice there’s a puddle coming from your general vicinity.” Elaine slides down into the corner.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t drink it. Apparently the East River is ‘unclean’ and ‘toxic to my people’. I drank it growing up and I turned out just fine!”

“That’s subjective,” Jerry speaks into his now-empty mug.

“She’s thinking about moving, Jerry!”

“I’ll get her the number for Two Guys and a Submarine.”

“Oh, you never liked her.”

“She claps by slapping her fin on the floor!”

Elaine nods. “I thought she was just big-clapping.”

“It’s distracting during a show! I don’t need big-clapping! I need lots of normal-clapping! Mermaids have arms. Don’t use your sea legs, use your land hands!”

“How do people clap at your East River shows? With their water legs!”

“I hated that venue. My dry cleaner can’t get the ocean smell out of my good suit.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Jerry. I think she’s the one for me. We just met, only kissed once, but I think I’m in love!”

A balding overweight man has strolled up to the table. He sits down next to Jerry. “Good to hear!”

Kramer nods, splashing water on George’s glasses. He takes them off and wipes it on his wrinkled shirt. “So, I’ve always wondered. How do you two… you know…?” George puts on his glasses and makes a two-handed gesture.

“Oh, that’s a good question,” says Elaine. “I mean, she’s got the lady half on top.”

Kramer suddenly looks like he’s seen a ghost, and not the one sitting at the counter. “I… um… I… have to be somewhere.” He stumbles to his feet, and tries to run. He flails and falls into his puddle, knocking down the waitress, who drops Jerry’s entree onto Kramer.

“That was the catch of the day!”

Kramer screams when he sees the fish that’s fallen onto his face. “Her cousin! Murderers!”

“You're wound up, Kramer,” says Jerry. “Grab a bottle of wine and spend an evening under the sea with your girlfriend.”

Kramer suddenly remembers why he stood up, and drops the fish and runs. The busboy comes over with a mop. Dejected, Jerry orders yet another coffee.

“So, George, how are—”

He throws his hands up in the air. “Dumped by a troll, Jerry! Dumped by a literal troll, and not the cute Troll doll kind, either.”

“That’s rough, George,” Elaine says. “There’s a goblin at my work who just got out of a relationship. She’s cute… I mean, for a goblin.”

He shakes his head. “Goblins… yeah, right. I bring a goblin to those awful Sunday dinners, and my parents would stop inviting… me…” George suddenly gets a brilliant idea. “What’s her number?”

Elaine fishes around in her purse, while Jerry sighs and fills his coffee with sugar. He snickers. “Bring home a hobgoblin and they might disown you.”

George rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. There’s no such thing as hobgoblins.”

Western New York, Vermont, or the tip-top of New Hampshire. Undecided.

Blork Forest cake, a Blork IPA, and every purchase you make enters you into a raffle to win a trip to their private compound on Blork Island — if you’re a paying member of Blorkatology.

I never thought about it that way. Thanks for the food for thought.

Awesome! I’d love to see if you can get that cleaned up so it’s looking like new — that’d surely make your ancestors proud — but as long as it does its job, that’s just icing on the cake.

No. That’s not enough.