The police are YOUR parents

I have a disclosure to make. 

I am a rotten sibling. Really. In a hypothetical family selection process--some situation akin to picking teams for Red Rover or kickball--I would get chosen dead last.  I get demerits for being bossy. And for not sharing. And for just plain making life hard on my sisters {especially the one who is chronologically closest to me}. 

To wit, a scene from my childhood...

In Which I am a First-Class Jerk

or, 

To Kirsten, My Sister, With Whom I Messed

The key players: two sisters, about 11 and 5 years old, respectively. 

Sister #1 is a disgruntled individual. She has spent nearly six years being the doted-upon only child. Attention, playtime, and school with mom were abundant. An ideal existence revolved around snacks, She-Ra toys, and sallying forth to the park with the great jungle gym. Story time all the time. And then one dark April day, Little Blondie's thunder was stolen in a big way. 

Sister #2 entered the scene. And Sister #1 never quite got over the shock of having to share the cats, the toys, the bedroom, and especially the parents with this Intruder.

Sister #1: {Feeling rather put-out and petulant after catching Sister #2 eating her favorite chapstick or some such infraction.} Did you know that you don't really belong to us?

Sister #2: {Wide-eyed, removes thumb from her mouth} Huh-UUUUUUH!

Sister #1: It's true. Mom and Dad bought you from the gypsies last time the caravan came through town. 

Sister #2: {Less sure in her conviction this time} That's not true...she's my mom and he's my dad!

Sister #1: {Shaking her head in fake kind sympathy} Look at all these family pictures in the hall. See how I have Mom's mouth and Dad's eyes? How come you don't look like anyone? {Which is not completely true...but I conveniently didn't point out the old grandparental portraits where the resemblance creeps in.}

Sister #2: {No response. The wheels are turning in her head. Brow is furrowed.}

Sister #1: Yeah, you belong to the gypsies. Mom and Dad bought you because they felt sorry for you. {Now realizing that there is further brainwashing to complete before the small one wises up and goes straight to the source...} But don't tell Mom. She wants you to think that you belong to us. You don't want to hurt her feelings, right?

Aaaaand, scene.

My sister #2 eventually realized that I am just her punk big sister and that the whole gypsy scam was just that--a scam, a power trip, an older sibling moment of acting out. But there was a while where I had her hook, line, and sinker. Today we laugh about it, and I like to think I am a better sibling now, after many years of trial and error. {But I wonder if there isn't something wired wrong to have made me so malevolent at age 11.}

The first time I heard Bill Cosby's monologue detailing a similar encounter with his brother, I laughed so hard my face hurt. To hear someone convince their younger sibling that "the police are your parents" and that the family would only "keep this boy till he starts lying" makes my heart sing just a little. {Really, it's a relief to know I'm not the only familial misanthrope out there.} Just look at that face...I know a kindred spirit when I see one.

So when Bart presented these coveted tickets, I was ecstatic. {He used the clever ruse of "let's celebrate our dear friend's birthday with this awesome event", but really I know that my beau was just catering to our mutual appreciation of Mr. Cosby's particular brand of humor.} 

We had a lovely date night last Saturday with our friends. We were regaled with dry humor and clever anecdotes and spot-on observations for over two hours. The man is seventy-one years old, still touring, and I think he's improving with age. Hats off to Mr. Cosby, for the man is a genius. My face still hurts. {Maybe the two of us belong to the gypsies. Or the police.}