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When I was a kid, our Christmases were so small you could have held them in the back of a van.

It wasn't that we were poor, and so much as my dad was a notorious cheapskate,

Mama said that if he ever died, he would walk toward the light merely so he could turn it off.

And this was because my father's family sprang from immigrants.

Immigrants, these were financially cautious people who only got married for the rice.

My father's people were also Germans, so that means they were humor impaired.

I don't mean to generalize here, but as a culture, Germans do not always grasp the

subter nature of humor.

I was once hired to entertain for a German civic club banquet in Pittsburgh, and I told

my first joke and was greeted with only the hum of the AC in the background.

At which point, a lady in the audience rose and whispered to her husband,

"'This man gives me a headache, Heinrich.'

I stood there, staring at 500 granite faces.

Heinrich and I had 59 minutes left.

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