The older I get, and the longer I do what I do, the more things I learn about life and myself. I’ve finally figured out that not everyone shares my sense of humor. As it turns out, there are still some sane people left in the world. Though I go to great lengths not to associate with them, occasionally they happen to be in earshot.
I had already planned this subject for this week’s column, but the humorously ironic thing about it, is that it happens to post on my 42nd birthday. If you’ve read any of my work at all, then you’re aware of the fact that my sense of humor does not always fall under the category of “appropriate”. I’m not exactly the guy you want offering up his thoughts in mixed company. This however does not alter my rants or behavior in the slightest. In fact, I take great pride in sending people away thinking that I am the weirdest cat in the room.
If something strikes me as funny at the time, I’m JUST selfish and arrogant enough to roll with it even if no one but me gets it. I know that makes me kind of a jackass, but I’ve come to grips with my role in life. The following is a small sampling of a massive collection of true stories about situations I’ve found myself in when not everyone in the room shared my sense of humor. I hope you enjoy, and just a heads up, this may be the start of yet another multi-part piece.
Be it through genetics, or my less than conventional parenting techniques, I’ve managed to pass my humor on to my three existing children, and more than likely, the one due in June. This, you will figure out in the next few paragraphs.
One such example occurred several years ago when my oldest child, who is now 20, was about 3 years old. I was working the day shift in a local bar while a very good friend of mine—who was also a waitress where I worked—sat with my son. Her shift started about the same time that mine was to end, so she brought my little boy to work with her for the shift change. He was a good sport and stood patiently and innocently at the end of the bar occupying himself as I finished up. I chatted with him as I counted my money to end my day, and the handful of bar patrons found him and our banter adorable—at least to a point, that is. My son then looked at me as I went through my shift ending procedures and said,
“Hey Daddy.”
I responded, “Yeah Buddy?”
He then asked, “Do you know what you forgot to do today?”
I responded, “No, what?”
And he very casually and with a hint of concern said, “You forgot to beat me.”
I immediately heard a smattering of gasps around the bar. Needless to say, I’ve never raised a hand to my son prior to, or since that day. (Though there have been occasions where it was tempting and seemed like a viable option.) This was simply a running, inside joke between he and I. One that I apparently failed to mention to him should be reserved only for home. This sweet, cherubic little boy had just delivered the line with the precision of a seasoned veteran stand -up comedian. Angelic as he was, he executed a perfect expressionless poker face of sarcasm that can only be obtained through my blood line. His ability to not crack a smile actually gave credence to his statement, at least to those who overheard the conversation. He caught me totally off guard with this, and before I could even explain to everyone that it was a joke, an elderly couple slammed money on the bar in disgust and stormed out. They glared at me with contempt as they departed without affording me the opportunity to explain myself. All my son knew was that this line always makes Daddy laugh. He had no idea that what he had just said would prompt a pair of aging strangers to contemplate a call to Social Services. It goes without saying that me and “the boy” had a talk when we got home that night. His genetic predisposition to humor never changed as he grew up. He is still one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.
Another example of my words not always being well received by all came about a year ago at a bridal shower thrown for my soon-to-be wife and I, by friends and relatives. We were expecting a baby and planning our wedding, so both bridal showers and baby showers were being thrown for us at about the same time of year. Don’t judge us. We weren’t a couple of teenagers trying to justify a prom night mistake made in the back of a Volkswagen. We were two grown adults in love intentionally expanding our family in whatever order and at whatever rate we saw fit.
Anyway, back to the story. We were having a great day with close friends and family. Everyone had gotten over the fact that I misunderstood the concept of the “shower” and I arrived wearing nothing but a towel and carrying a bar of soap. (o.k., I made that part up.) After stuffing our faces with meatballs, various snacks, and delicious cake, it was now time to open gifts. My fiancé and I sat side-by-side unwrapping the generous offerings from our loved ones. We held each new present up for all to see like a kindergarten teacher reading a story to her class and pausing after each page to show the illustrations.
So the gift opening continued, pausing after each one to construct the traditional bride bonnet made of the ribbons and bows adorning each present. The next gift we opened was a large rectangular box about the size and shape of a small television. It was the toaster oven we had registered for. As we unwrapped the gift, the picture on the box was facing us so others in the back of the room couldn’t see what it was. One family friend asked what it was. As my future wife and consummate good sport turned the box around to be seen, I said without expression or hesitation, “it’s a tanning bed for the baby!”
Now considering the event and the audience, you’d assume that this was not exactly what you would think of as “mixed company”. And yet my comment elicited a variety of responses. Most laughed hysterically having accepted long ago that I am who I am; while others had a slight look of Wow, did he really? on their faces. I’ve grown accustomed to that look having been on the receiving end of it many, many times over the years. It’s sort of the same look one might get if they walked into a packed Chuck E. Cheese hammered drunk, with their fly down, smoking a cigarette and wearing a t-shirt laden with profanities. For what it’s worth, I have never put the baby in the toaster oven. She won’t fit.
Well, I’m out of time and space and we’ve only scratched the surface of this new topic, so I’m sure there will be more to come. As always, I wish I could say I was making this stuff up but sadly, I’m not. This is my world; enter at your own risk. Thanks for playing along.
Until next week,
Syd Nichols
