I had an epiphany the other day. My little brother is a klutz. I was dumbfounded as I watched him attempt a magic trick in front of a cadre of friends. There he was, in his tuxedo made of satin, trying to turn a cheddar-wrapped frankfurter into a cantaloupe. The trick was a fiasco. The cantaloupe, hidden in a satchel under his jacket, fell onto the floor and was smashed to smithereens. I couldn’t help but guffaw. My poor brother froze onstage like a proverbial deer in headlights.
For his next trick, my brother tried to hoodwink his friends into thinking he could disappear. I wouldn’t quibble if the trick had worked, but instead, my brother released a smoke bomb and hid behind an old trunk. Overall, my brother’s magic show was far from the performance of a virtuoso, and his tomfoolery caused quite a hubbub in the room. Rather than ad-lib a clever excuse, my brother tried to cover up his failures with a lot of razzmatazz. He even attempted another trick to rectify the situation, but that just ended in more mayhem. It was complete pandemonium!
Even so, his buddies gave him a standing ovation for his zany performance. I have to marvel at their support, but I worry that their reaction might magnify his confidence and provoke him to try again. If he does, I might have to show up wearing a hazmat suit over my denim!
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