To misquote the great she-devil herself, we have become an uncle, again. Yet another family member has succumbed to the urge to breed, and has done so successfully. This is to be regarded, apparently, as an achievement, even though rats in the sewers manage it, and even though no-one expects congratulations on the successful completion of any other bodily function.
If you were wondering, that ominous creaking you can hear is the planet about to collapse under the weight of the pointless mounds of human flesh that are driving it heedlessly to destruction. We just don’t have the food for all these new humans we keep producing. We don’t have the energy for them. We don’t have the water. This world desperately needs fewer people in it. But, hey, most of the negative effects of global overcrowding will be felt in poor countries, and we’re sitting pretty in the rich and over-privileged west, so not to worry. We can always build a barbed-wire fence along the entire coast, and turn up the volume on The X Factor so as not to hear the wailing masses trapped outside.
I know, I know: I’m being unfair, judgemental and an all-around arsehole; feel free to criticise me in the comments for the unfeeling bounder and cad I so clearly am.
Anyway, I love the family member concerned, and no doubt in time I shall come to tolerate the child (though I shall spend as little time with it as I conceivably can – things like this + my pathological fear of infection = Aethelread nowhere near kids). Still, the poor thing has just been condemned, barring a desperate act or a stroke of luck, to ~80 years stuck on this miserable shit-heap of a world, and I find it hard to see this as grounds for celebration.
blah blah…shouldn’t generalise from my own experience…blah blah…depression talking…blah…
The poor mite currently has more syllables in its names than it does pounds of body weight. They’re not terrible names. The first middle name should offer a reasonable alternative if the first name is not to taste, which it may not be, if the child ever happens to read one of Graham Greene’s better known novels. The second middle name, which it has acquired second-hand from an older relative, is rather ugly, and mentioned in a famous Beatles song. It could be worse. A school friend of mine was named Cecilia, after the Simon & Garfunkel song. I mean, go and read the lyrics to that, if you don’t know them already – they were basically calling their own newborn daughter a slut. Parents are weird.
Right, off to cover a greetings card in happy platitudes and pretend like I’m thrilled. I may be a wicked, awful person, with a monstrously inhuman attitude to sweet ickle babbeys, but I know my duty as a brother. Don’t worry: nobody will know I’m being insincere; I’ve got the dissimulation down pat; I’ve done it several times already.