My assistant brewer, Dave, is good at incredulity, among other things. He’s smart, a fount of the kind of quasi-useful knowledge copyeditors excel at (e.g., they are vocal cords, not chords; the word is actually supersede, not supercede, although some style manuals now accept the typo as a new “variant”), he knows a lot about movies, books, and dinosaur rock, and he has the kind of wry wit I can either hear or not, depending on how preoccupied I am with whatever brewing conundrum I’m contending with.
For instance, late last winter he doubted my incredibly lucky high score in solitaire. I play the game as a sort of mental sorbet at times, to clear the mental cobwebs between tasks, and I had a game where all of the cards fell in place. I’d never score that high before.
When I told him he voiced doubt. I suspect just to give me grief. Maybe he knew I’d leave the dang computer on to prove it. I actually tried to take pictures of the screen a couple times to see if I could digitally preserve the score. But I couldn’t tell, looking at my Canon’s little display screen, whether the score was visible or not.
And then I forgot about it. Until I downloaded pictures recently and there was the proof (nevermind the dusty screen–every transparent speck showed up opaque; it’s long since been cleaned):
That’s right buddy, 70 seconds, read it and weep:
OmbudsBen 
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