In A Vicious Motor Cycle
(My little brother has ridden motorcycles for as long as I can remember. He’s always VERY safety conscious, and makes sure his bike is in proper condition: helmet not cracked, gloves in good condition, and so on. One day he’s running late for work and grabs his helmet, gloves, and keys, then heads for the door.)
Brother: *walking back in* “I forgot my pack!”
(He drops his keys and gloves on the coffee table, goes to his room to get his pack, and then heads out the door again.)
Brother: *walking back in again* “GAH! My keys and gloves!”
(He retrieves his keys and gloves and heads out the door a third time, only to walk back in AGAIN, howling like a wounded dog.)
Me: “What’s wrong?”
Brother: “This.”
(He holds up his feet to show that, instead of riding boots, he’s wearing his bedroom slippers, complete with little frogs embroidered on them.)
Me: *laughing uproariously*
(He goes back to the bedroom once more to get proper footwear. He methodically checks his pack to make sure he has everything he needs. He checks his gloves and keys, even going so far as to verify that the motorcycle’s ignition key is on the ring. He checks his helmet carefully for cracks, and slips it on his head.)
Brother: “F*** it. I’m late.” *heads out the door*
(Forty-five minutes later, he’s back. He doesn’t even bother to take off his gear, falls face-first onto the couch, and whimpers softly into the cushions.)
Me: “Okay, what’s wrong THIS time?”
Brother: “It’s Sunday. I don’t work today.”
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