“Tuna fish” is redundant.
“Tuna”
“Do you mean the fish?”
You don’t have to do that with “German Shepherd.”
“We should have said, ‘German Shepherd Dog.’ That’s how we ended up with Hanz chained up in the backyard.
Well, you can’t leave them loose after two world wars. And wouldn’t you know it, they don’t like sleeping in the attic!”
“Salmon”
“George Salmon or the fish that swims upstream?”
“Farm raised.”
“Oh, George. Yes, I remember that farm. South of France, the Salmon family.”
“More of an engineer, Hanz, but when we adopted him he was shepherding in the north of Germany, by the sea.
Sheep, not Jews, just to be clear…”
I met a girl once on a train, thought she was French and would give in easily, but no, Germany.
“Where from? Munich? Frankfort?”, I tried to sound hip.
“Up north, by the sea. Beautiful view, but the weather is terrible. That’s the #1 complaint about Germany.”
“Really? The #1? You sure there’s not one or two small things… “
She had no clue what I was hinting at… I started throwing out clues…
“Trains not running on time… that kind of thing?”
Those German Shepherd dogs, though, they’re really going out of their way to make up for what they did in World War II… walking blind people across the street, sniffing out bombs, helping Israelis tackle terrorists.
Meanwhile the Schnauzer, still hiding behind that mustache.
Whenever I meet a German Shepherd, I ask, “Where were your grandparents during the war?”
They aren’t talking. Apparently the humans aren’t either.
Two girls came up to me after a show, “We’re from Munich and we’ve never met a Jew before!”
“Well, who’s fault is THAT!?”
