She: “Sweetheart?”
He: “Yes, love?”
She: “Did you by any chance get the number of that truck?”
He: “What truck?”
She: “The one that just roared by the house and knocked all the stuff off my shelves!”
He: “Nope, sorry, I didn’t. And it wouldn’t have done either you or me any good if I had, because no way the driver’s going to have any truck with us. Or anyone else in the neighborhood.”
She: “I’d like to know why not?”
He: “Because the rig’s unlicensed, and you won’t find the driver at the union hall.”
She: “Well, dammit, whose fault is this?”
He: “That, I don’t know. I can’t find it on any map. I guess that means that the geologists haven’t named it yet. Though the aftershock profile certainly seems to suggest that there is one sandwiched between the lava flows of Hualalai and Mauna Loa. Folk in Waikoloa better be ready to duck and cover.”
She: “Hello? Earth to …”
He: “Precisely.”
She: “… whut?”
He: “What you felt, my dear, was not an overloaded, speeding truck. What it was was an earthquake. A fat healthy serving of aloha from your friendly neighborhood Hawaiʻi Island.”
She: “The island is throwing my own stuff at me?!?”
He: “Well, that is what earthquakes do, if they’re big enough. And this one was getting there.”
She: “You got that right. That shake sure got my earth quaking! And you want to know what kind of aloha I call it that makes me have to duck flying objects in my own house?”
He: “Um …”
She: “Aloha owie! And I don’t suppose there’s any hope of the ʻaina sending anybody around to help me clean up the mess.”
He: “I’ll be quite happy to declare victory if the ʻaina doesn’t send around another shock any time soon. It is bigger than we are. Remember?”
Oy.
Funny punny