"To listen to you whine? About nothing and everything all at once?" I smiled, but the stranger didn't share in my joke. Not really a joke, I mused, but a reference, in the fashion of our times. I realized it was not unlike the joke where the prisoners are all familiar with the same jokes and so refer to them by number. The jokes were all ones remembered; creation was beyond the scope of a prisoner, as so many of us. To jest is to regurgitate, to force down the throat of another as a mother bird the same tired, redigested unhip pop-cultural references (tritely named 'refs' they have become so commonplace). All the more relevant was it that I quoted a song from the nineties, one dubbed by now a classic, no doubt (there you see another joke, or rather, less than, as it only makes a reference to another such band of the 90s). This sense we have of 'humor' (more, less, or beyond) consists merely of inference made between one another of half-remembered jokes seen on the Simpsons and songs heard on the radio due to their popularity on TV. And the marketing deals they've forged with major car companies. The lack of humor, per se, is most probably linked to the P.C. (politcal correctness, not personal computing) movement of the last decade. And with the same unoriginality, I lament the much lamented cork upon the horns of the dilemma stunting mankind's collective superconscious need to right itself by way of violent overthrow.
It was then that it occurred to me that I had never answered the stranger's question. I looked down to my watch, pocketed the item, and looked up to respond in earnest to the inquiry, but the gentleman had departed.