While I dislike "rules" as a rule -- and preambles -- they're often necessary both as a frame of reference and when you're trying to make fun of something in this, Our Lady of Post-postmodern Epics of Epicacity.
So what? So, it's Memorial Day, yay, which I won't make fun of, but all the war movies on TCM sure do get old, as does war, HELLO? but what Memorial Day really needs is a new run-sentence set of Potluck Rules. It's unavoidable. Like the rules of grammar, I keep trying to dodge them, but they KEEP PULLING ME BACK IN.
Dada's Potluck Rule #1: Bring something really good that YOU like, and hopefully made yourself. Why? Because everything at the potluck might consist of Thousand Year Old Egg and Pickled Belut. But that's ok. You brought 400 lbs. of Dada's Yummy Triumph Pasta Salad. Pasta salad? you say. Yes, Maurice. A blown, threatened palate takes great solace in a giant bowl of overly creamy right-handed celery-seed-laden pasta helices.
Dada's Potluck Rule #2: Don't pick your nose -- esp. if you're wearing white gloves. And avoid crowns in everything.
Dada's Potluck Rule #3: LET THE CAT BRING THE WATERMELON. Actually, when the cat's in a mood, let him do whatever he wants. Like you could stop him.
There'll be more rules later as I think of them, but I have to cut this short: I have to find my white gloves and air the carriage out for tonight's potluck. "Honey, where's my Chain of Office?"