The other day after work I boarded an elevator only to find right next to me, standing tall and proud in a shiny red uniform with bright brass buttons, none other than the pop-rock legend who hails from Asbury Park, New Jersey, known to his die-hard fans as the Boss.
“Bruce Springsteen?” I said incredulously.
Picking up my jaw from off the floor of the elevator, I asked, “What on earth are you doing here?”
He replied: “I’m going down, down, down.”
Jesus Christ, official self-elected savior of humankind, bearded water-walking, cripple-healing, super-suffering wonder, when confronted by the burly, Mel Gibsonesque (apart from his loftier height) centurion preparing to pound a nine-inch nail through the mild-mannered messiah’s holy starfish of a hand, quipped, “I gather this is what passes for acupuncture back in Rome.”
When that didn’t get a laugh, he added, “Give my regards to Sid Caesar.”
The centurion gazed at him blankly.
“I forgive you for failing to understand the gist of my remark,” said Christ. “Must be the generation gap.”
As Peter did his best to work out a tune on the primitive stone instrument he was playing before the cross, Jesus cried out with joy:
“That’s it–you’ve nailed it!”
(And God added an eleventh commandment he emailed to Moses’ secretary: “Thou shalt not make execrable puns.”)