Byron and Nancy were having the first quarrel of their love-life of two weeks. Byron was 95. Nancy was 88. Byron said, holding out his teaspoon, “This, my dear Nancy, is the proper way to load up your teaspoon with Nescafe, nice and full and rounded.” “Oh, no!” exclaimed Nancy, “that won’t do at all! It must be level, level as the plains of Kansas!” “What has Kansas got to do with it?” asked Byron. “They probably don’t even have Nescafe in Kansas.” Nancy did a quick check on her computer, then pronounced, “They do have Nescafe in Kansas! Therefore, I am right.” “Right about what?” “About being on the level. One should always be on the level.” Byron thought for a minute, then said, “What is wrong with a rounded teaspoon of Nescafe on the plains of Kansas?”
To which Nancy retorted, “What has Kansas got to do with it?” Byron said, “But you brought Kansas up.” “Oh, no; I never raised Kansas. I left it level.” Exasperated, Byron said, “You mean to say that I must make my teaspoon level?” “You must, my dear, or we are going to have a big fight.”
While Nancy was slightly turned away, but watching Byron in a mirror on the wall, he held his rounded teaspoon of Nescafe over his coffee cup and drew his finger across it—all the excess coffee falling into the cup. Then he said, “Okay, now it’s level, my dear. May I dump it in?” Nancy turned and said, “Go ahead, my dear,” and with a twinkle in her eye, shuffled over and pecked Byron on the cheek. He said, smiling at her, “Can’t I have a rounded kiss, my dear?” Then added, “I think that mirror should be in the other room, don’t you?” Then she kissed him long and hard—twice.