I learned some really shocking information about myself the other night at work. It went down something like this:
Steve: Hey, do you want some of this fancy chicklet-like-gum I have that comes in this neato tin box [See Exhibit A]?
Me: Sure, I'll try some.
Steve: Say when. (Proceeds to dump about 12 pieces in my hand.)
Me: Too late. (I start putting pieces back in the neato tin box)
Steve: Yeah, if you could not lick the pieces before you put them back, that would be great. (I immediately start pretending to lick each piece. When I finish, Steve shuts the lid on his neato tin box). Hey--thanks for that DNA sample. The results should be available shortly.
...a couple minutes pass...
Steve: (pops his head out of his office) Hey, Kristi? Your DNA results are back. It turns out you have Downs Syndrome. I'm sorry to be the one who has to break it to you...
Me: Are you making fun of my disability? Because I'm protected under the law.
Exhibit A: Neato Tin Box
P.S. Steve didn't actually say "See Exhibit A," although such declarations are to be expected from his ilk.