I had been at the office for seventeen hours straight, and I was beginning to fade faster than an empty ink cartridge in a print shop.

No, that's not going to work. I had been working for seventeen hours straight, and I was wilting like the last rose of autumn.

No, I don't like that either. I had been working for a long time and I was very very very VERY tired. Hmmm that's closer. I should add one more very, or perhaps a VERY.

The phone rang (in real life, not in the story I'm writing).

“Yeah? It's me.”

“Sorry, it's I. There, happy?”

“'Sup, Dude?”

“Sorry Ma, I call everyone Dude.”

“No, I'm your oldest son. Bill is the second oldest.”

“What? Oh, I know you hear from him a lot more than you do me, so you tend to think of him as your first born son. I can handle that. Yeah, Ma. Yep, I'm okay. Sniff sniff sniff.”

“Pardon? No, I always wear my jacket outside, even on hot days. You taught me that. Last week, I wore it to the Durham Bulls' baseball game. It was 101 degrees outside. I got dehydrated and had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital. $12,500 later, I'm okay, good as gold.”

“No, Ma ... Ma, listen ... Ma, I said gold, not mold.”

“What do you mean I shouldn't listen to you? You'd kill me.”

“No, I'm forty-eight years old now. Forty-six was two years ago.”

“Ma, hey ... Ma ... no, Bill is forty-six. He's where I was two years ago.”

“What? What do you mean you hope in two years he's not where I am now? Wait, can you do that again? You're confusing me.”

“No Ma, confusing, not Confucius.”

“Yes Ma, I'm trying to have a social life.”

“No Ma, I'm not overdoing it. I'll be careful. And I'll still wear my jacket outside, even in warm weather.”

“Oh, Ma, I was going to tell you this. I've started dating this girl and ...”

“Right Ma, a girl. Okay, she's forty-two years old.”

“Right, just a kid. Now, here's the thing. Her father was one of those singers who invented the music box that plays the tune but not the lyrics and you sing along with it; her mother was a sharp shooter who was a descendant of one of Buffalo Bill's sharp shooters.”

“No, I'm serious Ma. And get this, her name is ...”

“Ma, this is a joke. I'm setting up a joke. Let me finish. I just made this up on the spur of the moment as I typed this.”

“Her name is Carrie Oakley. Get it?”

“The joke, Ma, do you get the joke.”

“See, the singer – her father – does karaoke, and ...”

“Well, I know I didn't say that explicitly. But if I said it explicitly, then you'd see the punch line coming, and it wouldn't be funny.”

“It wasn't funny anyway? Sorry Ma ...”

“Okay, so her mother the sharp shooter ... do you remember Annie Oakley?”

“Right, from Annie Get Your Gun ...”

“Never heard of her? Ma, where have you been all my life?”

“Okay, here's another. I may have heard this one before, or maybe I'm making it up right now. I'm honestly not sure which.”

“Ready?”

“No, Ma ... see, her father was a karaoke singer ... you do know what that is, right?”

“Yes, yes, you've got it. Okay, so here's the other one.”

“Ready? Here we go.”

“Okay Ma, why did the comedian get booed when he didn't bring back something to drink at the wedding reception?”

“Give up?”

“No Ma, it can be any comedian. This isn't something that really happened. Well, I guess it could be, actually. But I don't know of any instance where it really happened.”

“Okay, so here it is. He got booed because he couldn't find the punch line.”

“Oh Ma, haha, I do make myself laugh sometime.”

“What? You're waiting for the punch line?”

“That was it, Ma. That was it.”

“No Ma, I won't record this phone conversation. Well, not most of it.”

“Say good night, Ma.”

“What? Oh, good night Ma.”