My mom loves telling jokes. Whenever she hears a good one, she can’t wait to share it with us when she gets home.
The only problem is, she sometimes can’t quite remember the punch line. “Why are seagulls called bagels?” she’ll ask.
“Why are seagulls called bagels?” we scratch our heads.
“Wait. That’s not it. Why are seagulls called… never mind, I’m going to tell you this one later when you’ve forgotten what I’ve already said.”
I suspect that her half-remembered jokes are more hilarious to us than the real jokes would be.
As it turns out, joke-telling prowess is hereditary. Yesterday while eating at Red Robin, we discovered that we all had the same joke printed on our coasters.
“Why did the sesame seed keep telling jokes?” my mom asked.
My sister, choosing not to re-read the answer on her coaster, answered matter-of-factly, “Because he was on a bun.”
We laugh. “No, it’s because he was on a roll!”
“Bun, roll, whatever,” my sister shrugs.
Today it was my turn to showcase the family legacy.
Alan, fully informed of my genetic predisposition toward bad joke-telling, asked me the following:
“Pete and Repeat walk into a bar. Pete walks out. Who’s left?”
“Who?” I asked politely.
Alan pauses. “Let me try this again. Pete and Repeat walk into a bar. Pete walks out. Who’s left?”
“Pete!” I correct myself.
Alan laughs. “Uh, let’s try this one last time. Pete and Repeat walk into a bar. Pete walks out. Who’s left?”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, REPEAT!” I exclaim, Eureka-style.
“Pete and Repeat walk into a bar…”
