My Sundays are as ritualized as a medieval monk’s.

Of course, my rituals are radically different from theirs. I don’t pray, meditate or painstakingly copy manuscripts. Nor do I sing Gregorian chants, tend to a grape arbor or trim my tonsure. And best of all, I don’t subsist on black bread and porridge. In fact, if black bread and porridge are a breakfast for the holy, my Sunday b’fasts are for the Anti-Christ.

In case there’s anyone among my readers who doesn’t know, my Sunday breakfast takes place, come hell or high water, at the Lake Clear International Airport, in the Adk Cavu Cafe.

That I have my b’fast there is one thing; HOW I do it is another. It’s unvaried, and a perfect example of me as a creature of habit.

First, my standard Cavu date is Lady Luna. If she can’t make it, I fly solo.

There’s always a wait at Cavu, but to me it ain’t but a thing. While I’ll never be known as a saint, I do have the patience of one. So a long wait at Cavu doesn’t bother me — espesh since I know it’ll end with a feast.

So what do I do while I wait? Well, if Luna’s there, we chat, and the minutes fly by. If I’m alone, I always have things to write and read, thus keeping boredom at bay — though, sadly, not my hunger pangs. I will also drink my first cup o’ joe while I wait (and sometimes my second), with milk, never half and half.

After the prelims, and I finally get my table, I order. And as befits a clairvoyant like yours truly, I do it telepathically. The recipient of my gift is Amy Rutledge Rattee, the world’s most upbeat and fun waitress.

She’ll stand at my table and say, “The yooje?”

“What else?” I say.

“Well,” she says, rather waspishly, “you once had rye toast.”

“That was at least two years ago,” I say.

“So what?” she says. “You MIGHT order something different.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And I MIGHT grow wings and fly.”

Then I wink and she laughs, and diddy-bops her bad self to the kitchen to turn in my order. In reality, she doesn’t need to hand in the order, since it’s always the same. All she needs to do is catch Josh’s eye, nod in my direction, and he immediately knows what to make. My breakfast there has been the same for so long, it’s less a standing order than a standing joke.

And just in case you’re an obsessive record keeper, here ’tis:

Signature omelet, homefries with no salt, both slathered in onions. Wolferman’s English muffin, with one extra pat of butter. Hot sauce — Frank’s, not Tabasco. Glass of ice water, and to cap it off, extra napkins to cope with crumb droppage and beard stoppage. Continuous refills on the Java.

That’s my food ritual. But I’ve another one that’s as unvaried as the tides but a lot more challenging — even including a rip tide. It involves Clair Bovee, who, with her worse half Josh, is co-owner of the joint.

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The hardest nut to crack … and to crack up

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When it comes to senses of humor, Clair’s is unique. In addition to being a strange melange, it — and of course SHE — offer the greatest challenge to my legendary joke-telling skills.

First, Clair likes all kinds of jokes — as long as they’re truly funny. And if I deliver it in my usual brilliant fashion, she’ll launch into a booming laugh whose decibel levels rival a broadside from the battleship New Jersey. But — and this is no small but — she makes me work for it. My timing and delivery have to be flawless or her reactions are merely normal. So if everything goes perfectly, she is The Joke Teller’s Dream Come True.

But she also has two humor quirks that can throw a wrench into my plans. One is that she never forgets a joke. The other is that she can anticipate punchlines. This combination can make her The Joke Teller’s Worst Nightmare.

Few people remember jokes for any length of time. A day or so after they heard it, they might remember you told them a lawyer joke, or a farmer’s daughter joke or a joke about rabbits, but that’s it. I think it’s because most people don’t tell jokes themselves. So since they don’t repeat and memorize them, they fade into the mist. I don’t know if Clair tells jokes (and I suspect she doesn’t), but for some cursed reason, she remembers them like creditors remember debtors.

As for her anticipating punchlines? I’ve no idea how she got that gift, but frankly, I wish she’d give it back. Forewarned is forearmed, which no comedian wants any audience to be. It’s why the first time you hear a joke, it might be a regular laugh riot, but by the third time, it’s just a drag.

So how do I prepare to launch our Clair in hysterics? I do what play producers do before they go for the bright lights of Broadway: They take the plays on a tour of the sticks. In my case, I don’t take them to the sticks, since we’re already in them, but I take them to the HICKS. Specifically, I’ll practice the new joke on the peeps who are easiest to crack up — Joe Dadey, Jack Drury, Pat Bentley, Doc McHugh, et. al. They are, in essence, the low-hanging fruit of Jokedom. Clair, on the other hand, is its Edelweiss.

Anyhoo, after I’m satisfied I’ve got my chops, I’ll go over the joke a bunch more times in my head, so when Sunday rolls around, I’ve got that joke right, tight and outtasite. Then it’s just a matter of waiting till Clair has a spare minute, at which point she’ll signal me with a nod of the head and a chin point to a part of the cafe where she doesn’t think anyone can hear me. Lest you wonder, the reason she’s so circumspect is because my rave-fave jokes (and hers) are not appropriate for children, adolescents or folks of delicate tastes or weak constitutions.

Now you might wonder what my win-loss record is. Well, while I haven’t kept a formal count, I’d bet of the last 100 Sundays, the dear girl has roared with laughter, no fewer than 98 times. And if that number is off, it’s only due to my modesty.

So much for me — how about you?

Do you fancy yourself as a real-life-of-the-party Yukmaster? Do you leave ’em in stitches? Has everyone told you you should quit your day job and go on the comedy circuit? If you’ve answered Yes to all of them, are you ready to up your game?

Well then, I’ve got the gig for you!

Just strut out to Cavu any day from Weds to Sunday, between dawn and 2:00 and tell Clair I sent you. Then, when she gets a break, you can work your laff riot ju-ju on her.

If you succeed, you’re now among the elite, and welcome to the club!

But you might also want to prepare yourself for failure.

And if you do fail, try not to feel too bad about it. After all, the odds were stacked against you from the get-go.

Besides, you’ll be at Cavu, so once you recover, you can lick your wounds and your chops at the same time.