All Because Of A Joke

Christmas is my favorite time of the year. The celebrations, the merrymaking, the hot chocolate, and the pumpkin pie. Every year, I go home to my parents’ house and we do all the things we used to do when we were little. Tree-decorating, cookie baking, Christmas shopping, driving around and looking at holiday lights. It is the perfect time of year.

Except for in a moment. In a moment will be the worst moment. What’s about to happen, will ruin Christmas completely. The next ten seconds will change a tradition we have done, our dad did, our grandpa did, our great-grandpa did, and so forth. It is a sacred Walker tradition, one that is about to be ruined forever. ‘Forever’ sounds a little dramatic. What is about to happen will ruin this year’s rendition of the family tradition. 

As I said before, this tradition is very dear to us and extremely important. It should be noted that it was my brother’s fault. I had no responsibility for this Christmas-ruining event. My brother was always a clumsy twit, and this moment just cements the title. He was standing on a ladder to reach the top of the Christmas tree. Mom insisted on the eight-footer. I know you think you know how this will go down, but I promise, you don’t.

Anyways, my brother was about to put the star on the tree, mom was cooking chili in the kitchen, dad was changing a light bulb, my little sister was coloring at the table, and I was reading A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens on the couch. Our dog, Alfred von Wigglebottom (don’t ask why our dog is named that), was sniffing under the tree, and our cat, Ribbit (again don’t ask), was sitting on the windowsill behind the tree. It was snowing outside and Christmas music was playing. It was the perfect scene of the holidays at the Walker house, until my brother, the clumsy twit, ruined Christmas. In just a second. 

First, it should be said, that maybe I shouldn’t have done what I did next. It should also be said that maybe I didn’t have no responsibility for this Christmas-ruining event. However, the percentage of my accountability is two percent, and the Clumsy Twit’s is ninety-seven percent. What about the last one percent, you ask? Split it in five and give a zero point two percent to my mom, my dad, my little sister, Albert von Wigglebottom, and Ribbit.

I get two percent of the blame because I asked my brother, “You want to hear a joke?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Okay. A man checked into a hotel. There was a computer in his room, so he decided to send an email to his wife. He accidentally typed the wrong email address, and without realizing, he sent the email to a widow, who just returned from her husband’s funeral. The widow decided to check her mail, expecting condolence messages from relatives and friends. After reading the first message she fainted. The son rushed into the room and found his mother on the floor. He noticed the computer screen turned on, which read: ‘My loving wife, I know you are surprised to hear from me. They have computers down here and we are allowed to send emails to loved ones. I have just checked in. How are you and the kids? The place is really nice but I feel lonely. I have made the necessary arrangements for your arrival tomorrow. Expecting you darling. I can’t wait to see you. With Love – Your Husband. P.S. It’s hot down here so pack accordingly.’”

It really was a funny joke, but maybe I shouldn’t have told it while my brother was on a ladder. We both cracked up, but my brother, who was not safely seated on a couch, laughed a little too hard, and the ladder began to tilt. I didn’t see it as a result of my laughing. Thankfully, my dad did. He was off to the side, chuckling and changing a light bulb in the lamp next to the couch. 

I think my brother got his clumsiness from my dad because when he rushed to catch the ladder, he tripped over the edge of the rug and dove face-first into the tree, which then fell through the window, breaking the glass. The ladder toppled the other way, landing on top of me, my brother flew through the air, smashed into the table, and chunks of wood went flying into the kitchen. 

When things had stopped collapsing, breaking, and smashing, we looked around at the rubble of our happy Christmas. What resulted from one silly joke was a Christmas tree hanging out the second story of our house, our cat stuck in a tree outside, where no one could reach her except the fire department, our dog hiding in the fireplace from fear, covered in ash, my dad laying on the floor where our tree used to be, a toppled lamp with broken glass and shards everywhere, a ripped A Christmas Carol, a blooming bruise on my arm, my brother laying in the debris of our table, my little sister still sitting in her chair, staring down at my brother in shock, a chunk of table in the chili pot, and my mom sitting on her butt in the kitchen, looking at the chili splashed everywhere. 

All of us sat there for several more seconds, trying to process what had just occurred and what it meant for our happy Christmas. It started with my little sister, then me, then my dad and my brother, and finally my mom, and soon all of us were laughing. I laughed so hard that I couldn’t breathe. When I could, I turned to look at my brother and said, “Way to go, you clumsy twit.” My family laughed even harder.

Alfred von Wigglebottom started barking and ran out from the fireplace, adding ash to the disaster. When everyone had calmed down, I asked, “Anyone want to hear another joke?”

“NO!” they shouted in unison. I love my family.