My daughter understands -- and shares -- my somewhat odd sense of humor. Gillian knows, among other things, that I find pretentiousness absolutely hilarious. She also was the prime target for years of the outlandish yarns of my own inflated importance that I have been known to tell with the straightest of faces.
So Gillian found the perfect birthday gift for me this year. She gave me the deed to a tiny plot in Scotland, the real value of which is that it bestows me with a semi-royal title.
The birthday mail brought me a very official-looking envelope that held a large parchment certificate granting me the right to be called "The Much Honoured Clyde Howard Bentley, Laird of Glencoe."
And I don't even have to wear a kilt. Until my next birthday present, that is.
I was happily dreaming of proclaiming my lairdship to my students, who would be so impressed they would avert their eyes from Facebook for a few seconds.
Then I noticed the address on that envelope. I may be laird of the manner in Glencoe, but in the postal world I am "Laid Clyde Bentley."
I thought of a half-dozen comments of questionable taste that I could make about that typo. But then I realized how how much harder it would have been to live with the title had those editor-less Scots moved their keyboard fumble just one character to the left.
"Lard Clyde Bentley."