You know what’s cute?

My brother, J.P. Morgan, that’s what. He’s got a new job, and he has to wear a tie, and he totally sent me a picture about the whole thing.

We spent an hour on the phone last night, shooting the shit. It started like this:

Me: Hello!
Jay: Hey! You answered. I guess we’re not playing phone tag anymore.
Me: Whassup?
Jay: Well, see, there’s these things. Planets. And they’re up. They’re–
Me: –rotating around the sun!
Jay: *beat* Oh, I see you know about that already.

We are so related it’s not even funny. Our senses of humor are equally out; as in totally outside. Most people have no idea what we’re talking about half the time, but if we’re in the same room together and something funny transpires – funny by our weird standards – we always catch each other’s eye and raise an eyebrow, which is Morgan sibling code for “Did you fucking PERCEIVE THAT FUCKING SHIT RIGHT THERE?!?!?”

My brother is so funny it’s not even funny. Dude. And he’s a monster drummer, which is cool. MONSTER drummer. Rhythm is so his nasty little bitch.

And you know what else? Fun Chicken*, that’s what.

~ + ~ + ~
*Fun Chicken was a machine in the Walmart and/or Hy-Vee foyer that had a stuffed mechanical parrot masquerading as a chicken inside it, and for two quarters it would lay a plastic egg with a prize inside it. We pronounced it “Funch Icken.” For like, ten years.