It’s no “for sale, baby shoes…” (spoiler redacted), but I like the feel of this short fictional invention:
From decades of reading The New Yorker, he had an extensive recall of the fabric that makes up the world. This recall, however, seemed exclusive to facts and anecdotes that led to an easy, repellent, or vulgar punchline about the minutiae that constitute the world. For this reason, it was most practical that around Thanksgiving, he was seated at the kids table.
If you’re keeping score at home, this is, IIRC, my debut as a writer of fiction. 🤔