Mr. Smith, worked as an account manager for a company on the third floor for more than 35 years. He never missed a days work and you could set your clock by his 9:00 a.m. arrival time. One day, he

..."start thinking about my career options, because clearly, comedy wasn't it."

I walked through the door, beaming. The entire class, even Ms. Gable's pet — little Timmy, who always sat in the front row with his hands folded — had burst out laughing when I said "Fried chicken." It was a triumph! But Ms. Gable, with her perpetually disapproving look, just sighed and said, "We'll discuss this with your parents."

And discuss they did. I found them in the living room, my dad doing his 'disappointed dad' lean against the mantlepiece, and my mom meticulously polishing a perfectly clean photo frame, which was her tell for 'deeply concerned but trying to stay calm.'

"Son," my dad began, his voice surprisingly steady, "Ms. Gable called."

"Yeah!" I chirped, "And she said I wasn't funny, but everyone thought I was!"

My mom put down the photo frame with a delicate clink. "Sweetheart, while we appreciate your... unique sense of humor, school is for learning about, well, living animals. Animals that aren't usually served with a side of coleslaw."

"But it is my favorite!" I insisted. "Think about it. It’s got a great golden-brown color, a fantastic aroma, and it always makes me happy. What other animal can do all that?"

Dad cleared his throat, trying to suppress a smile that was clearly fighting its way out. "Yes, but they usually expect an answer like a lion, or an elephant, or a majestic soaring eagle."

"An eagle?" I scoffed. "Can you imagine trying to eat an eagle? All those talons and feathers! No thank you. Fried chicken is much more practical."

My mom finally cracked. A little snort escaped her, quickly followed by a full-blown laugh. Dad’s serious demeanor crumbled, and he joined in, leaning his head back and roaring with laughter.

"Okay, okay," Mom managed, wiping a tear from her eye. "It is funny. We'll give you that. But Ms. Gable is trying to foster an appreciation for the natural world, not the culinary arts."

Dad regained his composure, though his shoulders still shook slightly. "Look, here's the deal. For school, when they ask about your favorite animal, pick something... alive. Something that lives in a jungle or the ocean. Something that doesn't require a deep fryer."

"But at home," Mom added, winking, "you can tell us your real favorite animal. And we can all laugh about it. And maybe even have some for dinner."

I grinned. "So, a tiger for school, but fried chicken for home?"

"Exactly!" Dad said. "It's about knowing your audience, champ. Some jokes are just too good for certain crowds. Like Ms. Gable."

And from that day on, I became a master of comedic timing. My school answers were always perfectly sensible – "the cheetah, for its speed!" – but my home answers remained delightfully absurd. And every time we had fried chicken for dinner, my parents and I would share a knowing look, a silent agreement that some truths were just too delicious to be contained by a classroom.