Family Joke Night

Short anecdote of the day: prophets have counseled us to set aside an evening a week to spend with our families. The prescribed evening is Monday. My family, however, has always had Family Home Evening (as it's called) on Sundays.

When I was small, Sunday night FHE included family joke night during dinner.

My dad told most of the jokes. Being children and therefore easily entertained, we made him tell us the exact same jokes every. Single. Sunday. And then we would tell them to him every. Single. Sunday.

And then, slowly at first and then suddenly, family joke night was dead.

Why?

I'll tell you why.

Little Sister, that's why.

Little Sister didn't understand jokes at all, but she insisted on telling them anyways.

Dad would tell this classic: "Knock knock."

"Who's there, Dad?" Older Sister and I would shout.

"Olive."

"Olive who?" We were now at a fever pitch of excitement. We'd already heard the joke 1,342,569,986 times, but somehow we were still on the edge of our seats.

"Olive you!"

Hysterical.

"Knock knock," Little Sister would then say.

"Who's there?" Dad obliged.

"Pizza."

"Pizza who?"

"Olive you!"

At first it was kind of cute when she did that. Then it was mildly annoying. Then it was terribly, horribly, mind-numbingly boring. We wanted to hear corny jokes, not Little Sister ruining corny jokes.

"Knock knock," she'd say.

"Who's there?" we'd groan.

"Banana."

"Banana who?" (With much rolling of the eyes.)

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Banana."

"Banana who?"

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Apple!" Little Sister said triumphantly.

"Apple who?" we asked, already cringing. We knew what was coming.

"Orange you glad I didn't say banana?!"