Let the Pun-ishment Begin

Yesterday was card night and my family went over to my Aunt Jeri’s to play cards with my Grandfather. We had a good supper, my Mom helped Grandpa with his check book, and things ran their course as per usual. In the fullness of time, cards were dealt and the games began.

Playing that night were, around the table, Cousin Emily, Brothers Eric and Todd, Mom, Grandpa, and myself. We play the Bidding Game, a variant of Oh Hell. Things are rather loose at the table. Before bids, for instance, we have been known to trade hands, trying for better cards. Such antics would have been verboten back in the day, but we’re more into enjoying the company we’re with than the rules.

We’re well into the second game when Todd pulled his shirt over his head. You must understand that when he’s On, there’s no telling what he’ll say or do. He’s sort of like the Waters family’s version of Jonathan Winters or Robin Williams. You start laughing and he’d go off God knows where saying the damnedest things. Sometimes he’s a joy to be around. Other times he’s a pain in the butt.

The shirt routine, sadly, fell into the pain category. He wore it like a mask over his face, exposing his more than a little hairy chest and stomach. Both Eric and Emily told him almost at once to put his shirt back on. Mom, unfazed, said nothing; suffering three fool boys for as long as she has has made her a bit unflappable. Grandpa studied his cards, in all likelihood unaware of any of this nonsense.

I, of course, Have To Say Something. My brothers are extremely talented in the wit department, and I try to compete with them whenever I can. What I come up with was, “Yeah, Todd, put your shirt back on. We don’t wanna play with a Wookie.”

Oscar Wilde I am not.

Emily saw this as an opportunity to get Cullen. I have no idea why she would do such a thing, except for twenty some years of being a victim of the aforementioned wit. That might turn someone a wee bit bitter. Downright hostile, even.

In fact, now that I think about it, that might explain the slight twitch under her left eye whenever she sees me…

Fabricating things about innocent parties aside, her verbal assault was worthy of me. “You have room to talk.”

This earned, what was for me, the Comment of the Evening. Without missing more than a half a beat, I said, highly affronted, “I’m no Wookie, I’m a Pwofessional.”

I love puns.

Eric does not.

He’s since put a contract out on my life.

So if, later in the week, I fall silent, you all know that I deserved it.

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