It may surprise you to know that I have a brother. For brevity’s sake, we’ll call him Uncle Aunt Becky, but I’ll warn you that it’s not REALLY his name because he’s older than me, and how could my parents POSSIBLY have known they would have named their infinitely superior younger child Rebecca?
I am so superior, in fact, that my father recently informed me that when they saw my face, they knew they could do no better, so my mother was immediately neutered in the hospital after my birth. This was all delivered with a completely straight face, the sort that my father always uses when he delivers his jokes, which is precisely the same way I tell my horrible jokes, so it’s safe to say that these things DO run in families.
My mother claims that when SHE saw me that she said, “Well, that’s a face only a mother will love.”
My family is very, very nice.
Anyway, my brother, Uncle Aunt Becky, he’s pretty much my opposite, and not only in that he’s male and I’m female because as far as I’m concerned, he’s a Ken Doll down there. BLECH.
See, he’s a beautiful writer and photographer, who actually got a degree in that stuff, and I pollute the Internet by saying things like, “meat curtains.” He’s a yuppie and my personal fashion sense is *sniff, sniff* Yup, clean enough for government work. I’m a science-type and he gets pasty when I say things like “NEEDLES!”
Mostly, our differences lie in that he’s kind of a gym rat who likes nothing more than sticking his muscled arms in my face and directing me to certain areas of his house. I like working out, Pranksters, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t have hours of the day to devote specifically to the deltoid muscle. I’m lucky if I can manage a workout at all, let alone an entire day devoted to my lower legs.
Uncle Aunt Becky’s new thing is triathlons.
The gear for them seems to hold particular interest for Uncle Aunt Becky, which is a topic Your Aunt Becky finds as interesting as toast. Apparently it is quite a topic for people who DO these things, but for those who don’t, it’s about as interesting as listening to me discuss the merits of the Twitter client for iPhone versus Tweetdeck (doooooowwwn with Tweetdeck!).
Beige paint, Pranksters.
So this weekend, Uncle Aunt Becky was supposed to do an Iron Man Triathlon that he’d been preparing for for as long as I can remember (which is approximately 6 seconds). I got a call from my father on Friday informing me that my brother was NOT going to be competing in the Triathlon as he’d broken his toe walking into some lockers at work.
You may assume that someone so closely related to me would be clumsy as I am (who the fuck breaks her toe making a sandwich?), but you’d be wrong. Uncle Aunt Becky got all of the graceful genes in the family where I inherited all of the clumsy, hair-brained, “it just seemed like a good idea!” ones.
In short, Uncle Aunt Becky is LOADS smarter and more graceful than his sister.
Like, if The Daver were to get a phone call that went like this:
“Um, so Dave, I’m at the hospital because I broke my foot chasing after a lemonade truck. See, I REALLY wanted some lemonade and the truck didn’t stop…well, okay, I don’t REALLY know if it was a lemonade truck because I’m not sure if there are such things as lemonade trucks, but it was yellow and it made me THINK of lemonade and then I got thirsty and decided to run after it and then when I got close it’s bumper fell off onto my foot. And now my foot is broken and the truck was ACTUALLY a DHL or DSL or whatever truck. So anyway, I need some lemonade. Can you pick some up on the way to the hospital please?”
He would just say,
But my brother, that’s completely a different story.
So upon hearing this, both The Daver and I stared at each other, jaws flappity-flapping in the breeze for a solid two minutes before we wondered aloud what the fuck had REALLY happened.
He never did tell us, but I have a feeling the story involves aliens or zombies or zombie aliens.
It’s really the only thing that makes any sense.
Incongruently, the story of the birthday blowjob is up at Toy With Me. It’s a great one.