When I was a kid, crank calling was the thing to do when you were bored and with your friends. Guiding your Spidey senses through a seemingly pointless existence, there would always be one guy who would stand up and say, "Give me the frickin' phone."
Not me. Not because I was haughty or anything. My excuse was pretty straightforward. To put it bluntly, I sucked at it.
That's exactly it. My wits are blunt when it comes to being able to think quickly. I freeze like water in sub-freezing temperatures.* My brother, on the other hand, was a master. Once long ago in a distant galaxy far, far away, following the death of Liberace, he and my sister conspired to make such a call. With my sister on the piano playing a Liberace tune (she couldn't have been more than ten years of age) and my brother breaking into his impersonation of the flamboyant figure (he was about eight years old) they invented a sketch — "Liberace calls from Heaven".
There they were. Two nutcases making crank calls as I, my oldest sister, and her boyfriend (now husband) stood in disbelief.
We could not believe our eyes and ears because my two siblings succeeded in making two successive ten-minute crank calls. They were able to keep people on the line — one was in French, to boot. It was that good. Why none of us went into show business in some form is beyond me. After all, the real world is simply not cut out for us. It was not designed to fit our DNA mold. Well, mine anyway. I'm the neighborhood friendly misanthropist. Getting up early and fighting traffic and lame colleagues at work never really sat well with me. Sort of like butter. I can never digest butter. As I grow older I am becoming more and more lactose intolerant, even though I never really drank milk. I digress.