A Christmas Miracle

I can't say how lucky it was that I found the Thornbys. They turned out to be incredibly gracious hosts to Roscoe, and provided him with what I imagine to be his best Christmas in years. Roscoe, of course, is doing his best to be aloof and distant about it, as always, but he came home looking at least three years younger and yelled a lot more politely when I came to see him the next day.

The fire really wasn't such a problem; the Thornbys were fully insured and are using it as an opportunity to add that third bedroom they've always wanted. And the kids are already asking when their "Uncle Woscoe" is coming to visit again.

No Hope for the Future

I despise children. In all likelihood there are many, many others who feel precisely as I do on the subject but are too constrained by social mores to make the confession. Since I make my living defying the expectations and hopes of those around me, I am in a unique position to admit this fact.

How repulsive!

I do not know if children are inherently evil, although that is entirely possible. What I do know is that contemporary standard parenthood practice is woefully inadequate to the task of molding them into respectful and productive members of society. Without meaning to sound like a cantankerous old man, I have to say that television, video games, sugary drinks, superhero comics, and possibly those tasteless matching sheets and wallpaper with images of some pre-adolescent pop star on them have done nothing but produce a generation of hyperactive, shrill, and obnoxious brats who, among other things, simply will not let a man have five quiet minutes to lie on the floor and hear the opening to his next opera.

I think I know what the plot will be, though

Such was my experience last month as I spent the winter solstice and New Year's with my alleged relatives, the Thornby family. Ed clearly had good intentions in connecting me with them, just like he had good intentions when he threw out my collection of priceless and irreplaceable pawn shop receipts from the golden age of 1947-1961. However, good intentions do not a truly valuable service make. Despite their friendly exteriors and welcoming (gasp!) embraces, I was quick to notice some signs of trouble ahead:

1. David Thornby works as an entry level analyst at Merril Lynch.  Not only are they totally out of line with my socialist principles, but they once promised to sponsor a concert series featuring some of my pieces, only to pull out in a show of total cowardice when they discovered I was going to use live ammunition.
2. Phyllis owns a large collection of "relaxing" "new age" "music" and listens to it religiously each night from the hours of 10pm-11pm as a way of going to sleep.  She often neglects to turn it off.
3. Taggert and Jennyfer, ages five and seven respectively, subsist mainly on a diet of chocolate cake and coca-cola, and have invented a nefarious method of torture known as "cuddle attacks," which as often as not leave me at the point of nervous exhaustion.
4. The dog, Bruno, is six months old, and, as it was determined after he discovered my pair of Zellis, not entirely house trained.

And they were my favorite pair, too

As far as the fire is concerned however, I can take no responsibility. It is certainly true that Taggert did ask me if it was all right for him to throw his army men into the fireplace, and that I said it was. I imagine he was playing some sort of ridiculous game with them, and as far as I am concerned, the fewer toys he has to trouble the world with, the better.  How was I to know that they were painted with some sort of flammable substance that would spark flames on the Christmas tree and then the curtains?  I wasn't of course, and I can at least say that the living room was not a total loss, and that despite any secret hopes on my parts, the boy escaped unscathed -- though perhaps a little bit wiser for the wear.  I expect next year I will be free to practice my One-legged King Pigeon in peace.