Evan and I come from a long history of people who don’t simply march to the beat of their own drummer, it’s more like they seize to the sound of ill-timed Jazz. For example, a normal Saturday family night growing up usually began with turning on Prairie Home Companion and ended with my parents placing a cassette recorder in the middle of the room, pressing record, and leaning back on the couch like Idol judges. What followed was my brother and I performing a unrehearsed variety show with undertones of anxious desperation and the sole purpose of making our parents laugh, or the two-man show I have endearingly come to call, “Oh, THAT explains it.”
THAT explains my social awkwardness that comes when my jokes don’t land and I decide to ignite a fart – at work. THAT explains why there are few pictures of me smiling, only doing the crazy ‘stop talking to me’ face. THAT explains why I can’t stop fantasizing about the many ways that getting an ironic Thug Life tattoo across my stomach could enrich my life. THAT explains everything you see here:
Evan also has inherited this gene.
And finally – proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
*Sigh* I suppose I should say thank you to the folks for letting us be kids and damaging the parts of our brains that inhibit recognition of appropriate behavior. I appreciate the brain damage and, as Mom always says, it’s nothing $10,000 in therapy won’t fix.