My Dad was a psychologist. He told us kids stories like the Three Little Pigs and the Gold-digger Wolf.
The first little pig was a writer in New York.
The second little pig was a famous director in California.
The third little pig was a farmer in Ohio.
And the wolf sounded exactly like Mae West.
We loved it and we loved the way Dad told it*—we loved telling him how to tell it, too. If I can pinpoint the origins of my love of storytelling—and probably my sense of humor, such as it is— this would probably be the place.
I always thought I’d do a picture book with this story, once social mores mutated just a little bit further, but now I’m thinking podcast—it wouldn’t be half the story it is without the voices . . .
Wonder if Dad would be up for one more Mae West impression?
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*You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced my bearded father’s impersonation of Mae West. He does the shoulders and everything.
All xkcd cleverness belongs to Randall Munroe.
Earful of Cider 