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Cry Me A River
by Brian Klassen
It rather suddenly occured to me yesterday, as I was sitting in my prep
school's Modern American Culture class, "Wild, Wild, West: Trashy 60's TV or
Postmodern Parable," that there were things about my life which did not make
sense to me. My education, class, and parental background (if you call Choate,
Harvard, and Yale a background rather than a legacy, or perhaps a prison
sentence is an appropriate metaphor; ivy being the prison bars, privilage the
equivalent of solitary confinement), would seem to inherently produce
happiness. My parents, the two people who I assume at some point in their
pseudo - relationship assumed the coital position and BINGO! Out I sprung, or
to be more accurate, something sprang forth from my father, entered my
mother, sperm and egg did the dance of a 10 million to one and nine months
later I arrived (I wonder if they noticed) to take a spin about this mortal coil
(yes, I am fully aware these words came from William the Bard prior to their
becoming the name of an electronica band, whatever the hell that is) where it
has become clear to me that: 1) my familial ties could not be anything other
than the cruel joke of a very sinister and perverted god, 2) father must be the
result of a 1930's eugenics experiment gone very wrong, 3) mother had been
part of the same experiment (they are probably siblings), and 4) my parents idea
of raising children was a gross miscalculation, most likely based on Rousseau's
"Emile" (yes, the same fellow who, while writing about the libertarian education
of children so as not to destroy their "natural state," had five children with a
rarely sober wife, all five of which were brought to the foundling hospital). My
cousins are cretins, my grandparents (both sides) I believe to be Nazi war
criminals on the lam (everytime I mention Elie Wiesel, they pale and leave the
room), and to top it all off, I think my girlfriend is pregnant (isn't it funny how
an educated young person such as myself, fully aware of the consequences,
simply can not settle for coitus interruptus, but blindly thrusts to the finality of
coitus catastrophous), therefore potentially ending every dream I've ever had
(my parents warned me about dating a Catholic; I did it to spite them); thus
confirming the old adage, "Those that laugh last, laugh hardest."
I bow, resignedly, to the inevitability of my life, given my birth.
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