Clearly, the man loves me. Can’t get enough of me. He hugs. He kisses. It’s embarrassing. Through thirty-some-odd years of stealing his bike, and stealing his lunch, and prank phone-calling, and gag gifts, and ear jokes, and “dull” jokes, and “ugly” jokes, and various bodily-function gags far too gruesome to elucidate, Leonard’s still crazy about me. Don’t let the curmudgeonly, vaguely annoyed tone fool you - Leonard’s always like that. It’s nothing personal. It’s really just the tragic aftereffects of prolonged ear-glue sniffing.
Scratch through Leonard’s hard, crusty shell, and you’ll find… an even harder, crustier soul. Age can do that to a man… but keep digging, and somewhere amid the Nimoy innards, you’ll find that underneath all the bellyaching, Leonard secretly loves my relentless teasing and practical jokes. He live for it. He.s never actually told me that; in fact, he often says the exact opposite, but through it all, I know the truth. After three decades of abuse, where lesser men would have by now grown tired of my absolutely brilliant little gags, Leonard hangs in there. Oh sure, he shouts at me, swears, pound his fists into my flesh, fingerpoints, name-calls, threatens to sue, flares his nostrils, and rolls his eyes every time I ambush him with yet another brilliantly hilarious trick, but that’s just his way of signaling me that he’s savoring every minute of it… I think. In fact, whenever he’s really enjoying my comedic gems, there’s a little vein just over his left eyebrow that sort of rises up out of his forehead and starts pulsating. It’s the cutest thing.