Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Ninjaism as a Hereditary Affliction

I've got a really bad habit of sneaking up on people and I'm thoroughly convinced it's not my fault.

I do all I can: I wear heavy, clompy boots, I try to make heavy footfalls, I frequently jingle keys or interact with the environment such that people will know I've approaching from a great distance though it be from possibly behind them, I frequently even shout things like, "Hey! How's it going?" or, "[NAME]! What's up?"

Nothing. "Oh! You scared me!" What the hell, man? Is there any thing that a man could do to announce his presence beyond this? I make noise. Hell, given the opportunity, I'd begin emitting pheromones at an increased pace just to give some olfactory forewarning. Nothing.

I know I don't weigh a lot. I don't vibrate the earth beneath my feet as I stroll by, but for god's sake, I do what I can at least.

So there's really only one viable conclusion, then:

I am part ninja.

Now, that could come either from my father's side or my mother's–a Jewish ninja is just as unlikely as an Italian-Irish one–however I'm leaning towards my mother.

Point 1: My mother is the least likely candidate to ever be a ninja, by any test of merit. She is clumsy, easily and frequently injured, incredibly unsubtle, and has all the grace and athleticism of the Brooklynite cab drive by which a ballerina arrives at her performance.

By this logic, it is the perfect cover. Obviously my mother is a retired ninja and all of this is one tremendous display of incompetence to through off assassins and trackers from an old rival school. One day we will be attacked and she will begin the training I should have had from an early age, possibly one I have been taught through surreptitious use of odd household chores and childhood rhymes.

Point 2: My father would be a tremendous ass about it if he were actually a ninja.

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