Excerpt from an email conversation I had earlier…

ML: There’s another. It’s a surprise.

MB: What is it?

ML: It’s a surprise.

MB: I read that the first time. I don’t like surprises.

ML: Do you like Christmas? How about jokes?

(At this point, most of my friends who are not clueless will be snorting heartily.)

MB: Anecdote #1: When I was two years old (possibly before, but that’s the earliest I remember), my brother, who is two years older, would haul me along on his annual mission, which was to sneak into our parents’ room and check all the usual hiding places (which, at four, he already knew) to see what we were getting for Christmas. He also taught me how to strategically unwrap presents to check out things that hadn’t yet been hidden when we did our recon and then re-wrap them.

Anecdote #2: I grew up with churchy parents, which means that I have had extensive exposure to Mennonite ministers, who, it seems, to a one, embrace the cheesiest, dorkiest, most well-worn jokes on the planet, and have pretty much ruined the genre. And you can’t kick them because it might make God mad.

Besides, being the storyteller and doling out the goods is, by orders of magnitude, the better side to be on. You know this.


Of course, these resultant quirks of mine mean that friends get great, perverse pleasure in putting one over on me. And have in the past gone to great lengths to accomplish this.

Of course, as a result I do not fully trust any of my closest friends. Fortunately, I know that they are on my side in the end, so having them assassinated has not yet proven necessary. 🙂

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