Say this phrase: "Do you have a problem Ronald?" to any member of my family, and let the jocularity begin.
It all started last Christmas, we got my son the ultimate, nine-year-old-boy, Christmas gift:
look here or it's possible this whole post will make no sense at all.
We brought it with us on a visit to my in-laws. My son tried it out on his grandmother, like me, she was not impressed. He moved onto Grandpa, quite a bit of success there. We went out to Grandpa's favorite breakfast establishment, and slipped the device in his coat pocket with out his knowledge. The entire staff of the restaurant knows Grandpa, since he eats breakfast there almost every day. My son sat ready, his finger on the remote control, waiting for the waitress. When she came over, he activated it. The waitress rolled her eyes and just said "Nice Harry." My father-in-law, always a good sport, laughed along with the rest of us. It didn't take him long to figure out what had happened.
With that success under his belt, my son needed new victims. Since my parents are on the way home from my in-laws, they were the likely targets. We predicted more success with Grandpa, than with Grandma, it just seems that boys and men appreciate this gift more.
My parents had five daughters; I don't ever remember joking about such things while growing up. It just wasn't done, an errant sound was met with mortification. This was a situation ripe for my son's new toy. We plotted the strategy on the way there. I was employed to plant the device, my son, of course, was the trigger-man.
We arrived at my parent's house on a bright and sunny afternoon. My parent's were waiting for us, sitting out in the front yard, a couple of my sisters were on hand. My mother stood talking to one of my sisters, twenty yards away sat my father, the target. I set out to accomplish my part of the mission.
My son held the remote control carefully in his pocket, upon my signal, he pressed on the button, again, and again. The sound was loud enough that my mother could hear it clearly. After the third emission, accompanied by my son's maniacal laughter, she called over to my father. These are the now immortal words of my mother:
Another press on the remote control: "Oh Ronald, stop."
Another press on the remote control: "At least say excuse me Ronald."
My father is sitting there, looking perplexed.
My mother starts walking towards him.
Another press on the remote control: "Do you need to see your doctor Ronald?"
Another press on the remote control: "Oh Ronald, stop."
We are all doubled over with laughter now, except for my mother, who is falling for this gag big time. Our laughter is both perplexing and infuriating to her.
Another press on the remote control: "Do you have a problem Ronald?"
Another press on the remote control: "Oh Ronald, at least say excuse me."
Another press on the remote control: "Do you have a problem Ronald?"
Another press on the remote control: "Do you have a problem Ronald?"
My mother was beside herself with humiliation at her husband's lack of self-control.
Finally, my father stopped laughing long enough to tell her that it wasn't him. My son couldn't hold back anymore and revealed the source of "the problem." We have never laughed so hard in our entire lives. My mother came around and laughed with us too.
An errant sound is no longer met with mortification, it is now met with a question: Do you have a problem Ronald? Let the laughter begin.
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