XPost: can.general, ont.general   
   From: nobody@dizum.com   
      
   A Child's Family Day in Scrotum County.   
      
   Family Day isn't what it used to be.   
      
   When I was a lad in Scrotum County, Family Day was the best day of the year.   
      
   My father would get up early, before daylight, and flog all of the servants.   
   Their cries would awaken us kids, and we'd scramble downstairs to get a few of   
   our own licks in before Daddy called a halt to the proceedings.   
      
   As dawn broke, my Uncle Wilbur would arrive in his tumtum, beating the pony   
   viciously along the way, as he had no servants.   
      
   While Mumsy and my sister Krystal prepared our Family Day breakfast of   
   seal-flippers fried in whale blubber, the menfolk (me, my brother Dylan,   
   Daddy, and Uncle Wilbur) would strip to our skivvies and dash outside for a   
   rousing game of Kick-the-Puppy.    
   Dylan was very good at this! Uncle Wilbur generally just liked to watch.   
      
   Then it was breakfast time! We dressed hurriedly while Daddy uncorked the   
   over-proof rum which we guzzled as we wolfed down our seal flippers. It was   
   the one day of the year that us kids were allowed to drink as much as we   
   wanted. How we laughed as we    
   vomited and stumbled around and fell down and hurled crockery and good-natured   
   abuse at the servants. One of my fondest memories of those years is of Krystal   
   throwing up on Bob the cat. What fun!   
      
   After breakfast, we would pass out until near suppertime when Mumsy would wake   
   each of us up with a gentle shot of morphine to the spinal column. Our   
   hangovers would dissipate very quickly as we rearranged our clothing and   
   gathered around the redwood    
   table. Daddy had cut that tree down himself! Mumsy's meal was always sublime.   
   We would start with her famous tortoise chowder, and continue with the    
   slow-roasted dolphin haunch served with trillium greens and a cashew-apple   
   foam. We would eat and eat    
   and eat some more! 'Vomere post cenam te velle dixisses,' Uncle Wilbur would   
   proclaim, as he staggered away to the outhouse. The servants were even allowed   
   to keep the leftovers for their own festive dinner: Daddy was always generous   
   like that on Family    
   Day.   
      
   Eventually, the glorious day would draw to a close. Daddy would be passed out   
   by the fire, so it was up to Uncle Wilbur to pour us kids each a large mug of   
   warm gin and tuck us up into our beds. Mumsy carefully laid out water and   
   fentanyl for our night    
   aches and kissed us gently on our foreheads as we drifted into deep dreamless   
   sleep, Uncle Wilbur hovering watchfully at her side.   
      
   Things aren't what they used to be. Krystal joined the Hieronymite order and   
   hasn't been heard from since; Dylan changed his name became a wealthy   
   traveling minstrel; Daddy died of cirrhosis; Mumsy ran off to live with a   
   plumber she met on the telegraph;    
   Uncle Wilbur won't be eligible for parole for 25 years. The nanny-state has   
   decreed that 8-year-olds shouldn't be drinking over-proof rum before noon (or   
   anytime) nor given fentanyl for their night-aches. The same nanny-state has   
   made it near impossible    
   to find dolphin haunch these days, and don't even think of asking your   
   fishmonger for tortoise.   
      
   At least we're still allowed to flog the servants.   
      
   --   
   Copyright 2012 Scrotum County Chronicle   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)