My family tends to be genetically challenged. Well, that's what the geneticists would have us believe. My wife and I both have blue eyes and, as kids, we had blonde hair. Mine grew darker during adolescence (I blame the drugs) and my wife's when she started manufacturing mouths for me to feed. Well, that's what she says. I still blame the drugs.Either way, we remain genetically blonde haired and blue eyed. And left handed for good measure.
Being thus afflicted, we were obliged to pass our 'recessive' genes on to our kids. We had, apparently and so the textbooks told us, no choice in the matter. It is the way of the world and Mother Nature. It ensures we will always stand out in a crowd. So, much as my youngest would like to be 'different'; dyeing her hair black, cutting up her clothes, sticking pieces of metal through her nose, lips, ears and other strange body parts she is, like her brother, sister and parents, blonde haired and blue eyed.
None of our kids are left handed, which proves science does sometimes get it right.
But all this is besides the point. The point is that I, a blogger, cannot resist a good 'blonde joke'. And Frank Paynter, the devious old bastard, offers the best blonde joke ever. In fact, the whole family—bar my eldest daughter—found it irresistibly... nay, side-splittingly funny. Eldest daughter is studying archiving and likes to retain a certain composure. Anyway, after cracking up, she regains her strait-laced look of disdain, feigns distaste and asks, "Why do so many women have bruises around their belly buttons?"
My wife and I, still laughing, can't figure this one out. "I dunno," I chortle. "Why do so many women have bruises around their belly buttons":
"Because you get blonde males as well," she sniffs, and leaves the room.
It's good (and she is 20), but this joke—courtesy of Frank, is as good as it gets.
