My seven-year-old son, The Fonz, came downstairs and told his brother, “I just made a book and you can’t read it.”
Optimist Prime barely looked up from his book before answering, “Okay.”
“It’s full of secrets and you can’t see any of them.”
“It’s full of secret codes and mysteries. Not even you can read it, Dad.”
I answered, “No problem. I got plenty of books to read.”
“Yup. Nobody can read my secret book.”
“Yeah, we heard you the first time.”
He sighed and went back upstairs.
You’d feel bad for him if he didn’t do this twice a day. Sometimes he asks for a little brother, and I know it’s just so he’ll have a new person to whom he can say, “I bet you’d like to know my secret,” and the little brother would be naive enough to say ‘yes’ a dozen times until he learned The Fonz would either never tell him, or if he did, the secrets would never be worth all the effort.
A few days ago, The Fonz was holding his crotch and said his wiener hurt. I asked him what happened, and he answered, “It feels like my wiener just got kicked in the shins.”
It’s been over twenty-five years since I’d laughed at anything with wiener in the punch line.
Submit a caption in the caption contest or take the risk of getting kicked in the Hallowiener.