Over the weekend, while much of the distaff blogosphere gathered to name each other's knockers, I was engaged in an erudite discussion about America's Founding Fathers. During this discussion, held over a game of whist in our sumptuous drawing room, I was made aware that Alexander Hamilton, the immigrant bastard love child who invented American capitalism, was only 49 (or possibly 47) when Aaron Burr shot him. This was disquieting news, since I'll be 40 next month and I haven't done dick.
Actually, this isn't entirely true. I am very proud to have sired two strapping boys, both of whom can now thumb their noses at the Devil with impunity.
Formerly, this was a tender subject. For weeks, the families pored over their schedules and tried to set the date for TwoBert's baptism. And Robert, who'd already pledged God's fraternity, delighted in taunting his little brother over his lack of salvation. (Lording it over him, if you will.) TwoBert usually responded with something like: "Arl. Oot. *belch* Ha-ee." Which, loosely translated, means: "A strange man will soon strip me naked and immerse me in a slate-lined, orthagonal basin of water, thus nullifying all Satanic encroachment. So up yours, homey."
Yesterday was the day. TwoBert was drowned, gowned, and passed around. And if the Devil did indeed reach out for my younger son, he most assuredly got one of those loud, sparky electric shocks. You know, like when the Wicked Witch of the West tried to grab the ruby slippers.
The same Wicked Witch, it merits noting, who was played by Margaret Hamilton. How's that for full circle?
