wee doors banging

I had a hard time choosing the title of this post. I was toying with “My Brother: Triple Awesome Comedy Genius” in recognition of the tale of magnificent lolmastery it describes, but in the end I decided on something rather more prosaic and descriptive. I’m not sure why; any title with “…triple awesome…” in it has to be a good one in my book.

Anyway.

I started a new lap of Sol today, and to mark this special occasion one of my three brothers sent me a birthday card. An unremarkable event you might think, but this was no ordinary card. Oh no, this was a card with a jest-quotient the likes of which you’ve never seen before and are unlikely to see again in your or your grandchildren’s lifetime.

No caption is necessary, as the pure wit of the thing leaps from the screen and slaps you in the face with a big grinny lolstick.

Just in case you have a sense of humour more commonly associated with medium-dead rocks, I’ll explain. It’s funny, nay ribcage explodingly hilarious, because I’m not a girl, I’m a boy (really, I’ve just checked), but the card says “Birthday Girl” implying that I am a girl and not a boy, despite me being a boy and not a girl, and thereby a humourous contradiction is conjured into being in the reader’s mind bringing about a state of mirth – a.k.a. laughter – while simultaneously poking fun at my masculinity and implying a lack thereof sufficient to cause confusion in a casual observer unfamiliar with my actual gender.

Genius. Absolute. Genius. Wit beyond man’s ability to measure. We are talking Jape of the Decade. We are talking April, May, June, July, AND August fool.

Oscar Wilde, I’m confident, is actually applauding in his grave. Winston Churchill, if his skeleton still had an ass, would be rolling on the floor laughing it off. Groucho Marx, if he hadn’t died already, would have cast aside his cigar and retired from life in despair when confronted by such extraordinary lol-fu, knowing any future comedic heights he could ever possibly dream of aspiring to would be unworthy shadows of the astonishing command of prankery displayed with this gag. Even the mighty Stephen Fry, modern paradigm of wit and erudition that he is, upon spying this apex of drollery would fall down and beat his fists on his head, sobbing “Not Worthy! Not Worthy!” into the dirt.

But is there a more subtle meaning? Does the fact that he sent a card at all, never mind undertake a thirty mile round-trip car journey to hand deliver it, imply that he actually cares about my feelings on my birthday? And if that’s the case, isn’t that a level of emotional sensitivity more often associated with the female of the species? Who’s really the “Birthday Girl” in this story, I wonder?

I’m not complaining though; at least he sent a monkey fighting card, unlike the other two.