“Stan Mikita died the other day,” said the clown wearing the Shelley Berman glasses.

“Pal told us about him once,” said the clown donning the banana yellow papier-mâché head which covered his real, much tinier head.

“Well no — it wasn’t about him. I’m not a big hockey guy,” said Pal.

“We’ve all seen Wayne’s World.”

“It was just that I was in Aurora, Illinois years ago …”

“…”

“What?”

“Now I can’t remember what the story was.”

“Wasn’t it with –”

“Oh, now I remember. We were driving around Aurora, trying to find Stan Mikita’s Donuts, down this street and that — but it wasn’t anywhere on the GPS. We stop at this convenient store and ask the clerk and she didn’t know where it was either. Said she never heard of it. So then I get concerned that it’s all getting very Rod Serling. False memory. Mandela effect.”

“So what happened?”

“Pull next to a jeep with a bunch of younger kids and ask them where it is and they say it doesn’t exist. And never did.”

“Stan Mikita deserved his own breakfast joint.”

“He changed the sport.”

“Accidentally put a curve in his blade, then found out he could launch wrist shots like clay pigeons. And that was it. No one played with a flat blade again.”