I was out hunting
mushrooms early one morning with my
gunny sack and flashlight as is my wont when good mushrooms
sprout like little penises. They go good with a fine
steak, provided you know where to look for them and I
do because my grandfather took me out in the
woods many years ago and showed me his secret
spot. He’s dead now as is my father but the mushrooms are always there. On the way,
however, I stopped under a bridge to relieve myself and found I had company, a gnome with a bulbous nose and a
severe case of rosacea leaning up against the
abutment and rolling a joint.
“Howdy,” he said, his little
triangular hat almost falling off his head.
“Howdy,” I said, affable fellow
that I am.
Then he
said, “You look like an intelligent
gentleman. Maybe you can answer a
question no other mushroom hunter has been able to
answer all the years I’ve waited for them under this bridge.”
Not wanting to insult the only
gnome I had ever met, I told him I’d try to answer his
question.
He seemed very happy to
hear me say that, took a deep breath and then said, “What two
people have the same DNA even
though no one in the world wants to debate this issue
with me, maybe because they think I’m short on facts, no pun
intended?”
Well, I’m no genius but I
know that one’s DNA is like one’s
fingerprints--singular to that person. No two people share the same fingerprints or
DNA. So that’s what I
said to the gnome.
“No two people have the same
DNA. Scientists proved that a long time ago. Science is always
right."
“You’re as dumb as the
rest of them,” the gnome replied, taking a long drag on his joint and throwing his free hand in the air with obvious exasperation. His little hat almost fell
off.
“If I’m wrong,” I said,
"tell me what two people have the same
DNA.”
He took another long
drag, jumped up, did a little
dance and shouted in a high-pitched voice,
“Why Jesus and Mary, of course. But you can’t
test them because they’re in heaven now waiting for the rest of us.”
I thanked him for his insight,
picked up my gunny sack and headed for the mushroom patch, looking behind me all
the way to make certain the gnome wasn’t following me. He wasn’t. Apparently he
chose to stay under the bridge, rolling a joint and waiting for the next
mushroom hunter to take his little quiz.
