Melba's Diner. I slipped into Mayberry late one night, I was just kinda travelin through, like some tumbleweed dream spinning half unaware wearing swift and Mercurian shoes when a cold reminisce like a stygian kiss planted deep on the nape of the soul, seemed to call for a dance of unholy romance with that pan, and a spoon and a bowl (Scene 1 Late night Melba's Diner) (It's my favorite quisine... a gourmet menu for the financially, uh, you know... challenged.) I sat perusin' the menu,and enjoyin' the exquisite ambience created from small stale smells imbedded deep within the memory of purloined siverware lovingly coveted by the genuinely larcenous at heart. chicken fried angst smothered in coloquial gravy---- umh, umh, ummmhh, didn't see that coming. I envisioned tiny mounds of free range mashed expectations floating in a creamy sauce of desperation. The waitress (in conspiracy) says Honey, what'll ya' have? Her black mackeral eyes now fixed on my insolent disposition. I said in my best Jimmy Stewart imitation; Well,... well what is most easily cured?... unamused and unappreciative of my classic and sometimes most provacative and dangerously devastating wit, she signaled to the police man. The one who had been eyeing me suspiciously like a fraudulent credit card charge gone wrong. He paused long enough to struggle with a piece of rutabega clinging maliciously to his incisor, deftly defeated with one fell swoop of that treacherously tenacious toothpick. He walked over and with a steely gray stare, eyed me up, and eyed me down. With a voice as cold as a strippers heart, he said; Whats most easily cured, huh? What's most easily cured? He said son, If I were you, If I were you... I think I'd have the cream of disconcertion soup. It goes down easy, but leaves a bad taste in your mouth. That'what I had last time I was here.