The other day at work, I was staring out the large, plate-glass windows in the conference room next to my office and the secretary’s cubicle.
I heard her walk past behind me.
I called out, “Why is it raining hay?”
She called back, “You are so weird!”
I answered, “No really. It’s raining hay. Are they thatching our roof or something?”
Walking up behind me, she asked, “Seriously, you are so funny.” Then she stopped and stared, because, sure enough, to all appearances, it was raining hay.
A few hours later, I managed to discover that the source of the haystorm was the fact that some contractors two buildings over were attempting to lay down grass seed highway-style in the middle of a windstorm. That wasn’t going so hot.
But our secretary, to this day, insists that no one else on Earth can get away with saying things like, “Why is it raining hay?” and seem wise for having asked a few hours later.
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