by J. MIZ
Before I begin, let me delve a bit into my family history. I am the product of teenage parentage. My mom is 7th of 7 in an Irish Catholic, Slovak, and Polish Family. All very football and male-centric. Her whole family is hilarious! We tend to be very dark, or repetitive humor on that side. Our humor saves us from death and others insanity.
Now meet Bob! He is 6th of 7 in a Swedish and Polish Catholic family (unwillingly converted from Lutheran). Bob is one of the most intelligent and creative people you could ever meet. He’s in M.E.N.S.A., toured with bands in my childhood, a studio musician, journalist for a local paper, guitar and steel guitar player, self-taught to read piano music and play piano. He also successfully ran a telecommunications company for 30 years. Bob is not funny to save his life. He is a closer talker. He is a Ginger. He is clumsy. He sported a Chuck Norris moustache for eons. When he farts he’ll ask, “What was that?”
The last time I lived at home, my mom sent Bob to the store. He asked me to go too. I know how this goes down, but I thought, “Meh! I need some stuff I suppose…” So we go to Jewel, as that’s the only store in the small town my parents live in. All Jewels are laid out the same. In full on Bob (Ricochet Rabbit style) mode, he’s out of the gate!
I’m three produce bins in, and Bob returns with the majority of all listed items. There’s a random middle-aged guy sorting through the same bin as I am. Bob is there, yammering off the bulging stash of items as he tosses them in to the cart. He’s sweaty, loud, talking in über speed, and well, being Bob. I nod in the usual, “path of least resistance,” way. After his items are deposited into the cart, and he’s a little less winded and a little more sweaty, he exclaims, “I almost forgot back up bologna*!” The man near us, after Bob’s smoke clears, says to me, “That sounds serious!” I just smile and traipse off at human speed.
I later find Bob, “headed right for us”, in the middle of Jewel with about 50 more things in his clutches. These are Touchdown slammed into my cart with much panting. I say “Oh! We need to grab mom butter. It’s right up here in the cooler.” There stands Bob, in full ginger glory. His fists are clenched tightly, and placed on his hips. He looks at the butter display as if it’s some type of ancient codex. I’m laying in the cut with the cart, per my usual. After he contemplates, closely to the same amount of time we’ve spent in the store, thusly, he exclaims, with much confusion, “Well what kind do we get?!” I reply, “Whatever is cheap! She doesn’t get name brand butter!” Enter Bob’s 45 more seconds of contemplation… he has a solution! “I’m getting the unsalted! She can salt it herself!”
* “back up bologna” is what Bob means when we have nothing to his liking, or instantly gratifying, so he can just make a sandwich.
We're Not Funny 