Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Hot Line
Back in the days BC (Before Cell), a priestess from Minnesota was visiting another priestess in California.
As she's showing her around, the Minnesotan notices a red phone on the desk.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asks.
“The Hot Line,” says her friend. “Direct to Big Mama Herself.”
“Do you mind if I make a call?” asks the Minnesotan. "I've got a question I need to ask. I'll be happy to cover the cost.”
“Be my guest,” says the Californian.
The Minnesotan makes her call, then asks her friend, “So, what do I owe you?”
“$527,” says the Californian.
“Wow, that's steep,” says the Minnesotan, and writes her a check.
Some months later, it so happened that the priestess from California returned the visit to her friend in Minnesota.
As she's showing her around, the Californian notices a red phone on the desk.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asks.
“The Hot Line,” says her friend. “Direct to Big Mama Herself.”
“Do you mind if I make a call?” asks the Californian. “I've got a question I need to ask. I'll be happy to cover the cost.”
“Be my guest,” says the Minnesotan.
The Californian makes her call, then asks her friend, “So, what do I owe you?”
“A quarter,” says the Minnesotan.
“A quarter?” says the Californian, incredulously.
The priestess from Minnesota shrugs.
“From here, it's a local call,” she says.
It's customary to tell this joke about wherever you're from.
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