Monday, 27 May 2013

DOPPELGÄNGBANGERS

Imagine you're a twin. If you are a twin, then good for you! Seriously, that's great, because you can probably relate to what I'm going to talk about...unless you're one of those phoney-baloney twins who are of different genders, in which case you're like a poor man's twins. I'm sorry, but it's a fact: if your twin sibling is of a different gender than you, then you're essentially the Nabob of twins, and my brother and I would be the coffee-that-comes-out-of-a-civet's-arse of twins. Yes, that analogy works nicely, methinks.

Anyway, you're a twin. If you're of the same gender as your twin sibling, as I am (in case I didn't make it clear) the first question people ask you about your twin status is NOT, “Do you enjoy having someone who completely agrees with your insightful assessment of every issue of significance, shares your excellent taste in the arts, and would administer an unrelenting and unhesitating beatdown of any person who stepped to you?” They don't ask that question, because the answer is an obvious and resounding, “You bet your unique, low-risk pregnancy, singleton ass, I enjoy it! Now hand me that comic book before my bro opens up your face like a sandwich on a diner menu somewhere! No, not that one, the other one. Next to the box of tissues. With the blue cover...ya, that one. Thanks. Do you have any Hawkins Cheezies?”

So. The first question people inevitably ask is: “Are you identical or fraternal?” I usually reply that they've asked a great question, that Mom and Dad always told us we were fraternal, but that anyone who has ever met us has sworn up and down that we have to be identical. I tell them that we have mirror image birthmarks on our deltoids that, when apposed, reveal the true name of God and cause us to speak in tongues and make a mean omelette. Then the person asks, “Really?”, to which I reply, barely able to contain my nerdy derision, “How would I know if we're fraternal or identical? We never had a DNA test to confirm it one way or another! What a maroon! Boy, should you be embarrassed or what!” Then they say, “But that part about the birthmarks is true?” Then I blink, stare at them for a few seconds, and tell them that I'm going over here now.

Another popular question is, “Who is older?” I'm not going to castigate people for wondering about this, even though a difference of mere minutes has absolutely no relevance whatsoever in the grand scheme of things and this query is pretty much one of the lamest that a person could ask EVER. No, I just roll with it, even though I want to give my brother the “nod” to go ahead and unleash on whomever deigned to pose that question. I know that people are curious about twins because...well...we're so darned mysterious and cool. We're like the Nick Cave of offspring. No, not because we're “bad seeds”—ha ha, real clever. Okay, we're more like the Tom Waits of offspring, but we're better-looking and actually enjoyable to listen to. At any rate, my brother and I have come up with several variations on how to answer this, but my favourite is, “Who's older? Who's older? I'll tell you who's older...hey, look over there! A civet pooping coffee!” Then my brother back-kicks them and we run like clones on fire.


As far as I can tell, the only major difference between my brother and I is that I suffer from a serious medical condition called “koumpounophobia”—an irrational and deathly fear and dislike of buttons—whereas he has been spared from this awful, unremitting disease. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to avoid buttons like the plague on humanity that they are, especially those with a primarily decorative or “aesthetic” (*cough, gag*) purpose. That's about all that defines us as unique individuals: a brand of peculiar insanity. That, and he's the good-looking one while I'm the...uh...other one.

Oh, what's that? You think that's all strange and creepy and stuff? Well, say hello to my similarly-sized and -shaped friend! Bro, it's time for you to do what you do best! Bring the hurt, mon frère! Yes, you can finish your coffee, first.

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