But it's our feeling that before the state--that vast motherless bastion of rectitude and righteousness--unlocks our cell to dead-march us along its sexless corridor, thento mumble piety into us from the mercy-thin pages of its Holy Bible, cinch us down snug and secure, and hiss open its gas jets to pack us off to the next life, we owe it to the rest of you idolatrous cockwielders out there to pass on the lesson we learned. Does that sound agreeable to you, Dad? Dad, I'm talking to you! He says it does.

It began with a birth, nearly nineteen years ago, on the night of February 15th, 1970. My dear wife Rhonda was all of twenty-one then, amber of eye and huge of breast, vivacious, fun-loving, ever faithful to me in spite of my shortcomings and the handful of cunt-hungry mongrels that always seemed to be sniffing about her skirts. Lovely as life itself was Rhonda, and carrying our son.

My folks came down from Chico in mid-January to help with last-minute preparations; they were radiant with love for us both and just itching to be grandparents. Rhonda's mother, Wilma Flannery, flew in from Iowa to be with "her precious baby" in her finest hour. She was one eccentric biddy, my mother-in-law, old and wizened at fifty. Her husband had left her soon after Rhonda was born, never to be heard from again. That didn't surprise me and I don't think it surprised Rhonda either. Although I wished Wilma had stayed in Oskaloosa, I did my level best to ignore her high-pitched demands and irritating ways and focus all my attention on Rhonda.

My wife's projected delivery date was Washington's Birthday, and around a quiet dinner one night at Mario's, my mom and especially my dad--Oh come off it, Dad, you know you did!--teased us about it, threatening to call their grandchild George or Georgina in honor of the man on the dollar. Rhonda's mother sat hunched over her plate, wolfing down tortellini. Good food always seemed to shut dear old Wilma up for a while.