i9
HUMOR
t seems like every time you go to a party these
days, some gay couple show up with a babe in
arms. It’s as if puking infants are the must-have
accessory for spring. (Lucky for the kids, most of
their dads have pecs large enough to breast-feed.)
It isn’t enough that a gay man knows how
to throw an exquisite brunch or orgy anymore.
Now we’ve got to adopt Chinese orphans, too.
I tell you, I can’t take the pressure.
As proof of our new role in society, the very
first baby of 2003 was bom at 12:01 a.m. Jan. 1
to a lesbian couple from Virginia. They con
ceived via artificial insemination, which, given
that the state was named for the Virgin Queen,
seems appropriate.
I’m not really into children. This comes as a
surprise to most people, presumably because 1
am so childish. But even when I was a kid I
didn’t like kids. They always wanted to do kid-
type things that, even then, I found repetitive
and dull. I’m sorry, but two go-rounds of “Peek-
a-Boo” and the mystery is gone.
My friends with children always want to
inflict them on a party. As far as I’m con
cerned, grown-ups belong upstairs drinking cof
fee and smoking cigarettes while the wee ones
tear apart the furniture in the basement. It’s
called a “wreck room” for a reason.
Particularly bewildering to me are the par
ents who go so far as to write thank-you notes
on behalf of their preverbal children in the
style of the child; some even use backward let
ter e’s and the like. Frankly, I think it would be
a lot more interesting if they were written in
the style of, say, Noel Coward:
Kid stuff
I
D earest U ncles :
Thank you ever so much for the teething
ring. It’s terribly amusing. I feel positively
Uncle Marc goes to preschool
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING |
TO MARC *
b y M a r c A c it o
primordial as I sit gnawing it all day long.
Unfortunately, I still drool like an amorous
Saint Bernard. It’s frightfully embarrassing.
Must go. It’s time to wet myself.
Ta,
Baby Amy
teacher gathered us in a circle and
led us in the following ditty:
Alice the camel has three humps,
Alice the camel has three humps,
Alice the camel has three humps,
So go, Alice, go!
I was aghast. Why was this
camel named Alice? First we invade
the Middle East, then we give their
camels American names. It smacks
of imperialism.
Alice the camel has two humps...
So it was with a certain amount of trepidation
that I accompanied my godson, Ian the Wonder
Child, to “Special Friend Night” at his preschool.
Something told me there wouldn’t be an open bar.
Ian’s gcxxl company. Like most thumb-suckers,
he’s self-entertaining. He’s also bossy and opinion
ated; I like that in a man. But he still enjoys doing
4-year-old kind of things, which usually involve
vast amounts of wasted physical energy.
Upon arriving, we immediately set to work
making spin art by pouring paint onto paper
plates and twirling them in a lettuce spinner.
They came out looking like the remains of a
Fourth of July picnic at Jackson Pollock’s
house. I was actually quite enjoying myself
until Ian wanted to play “grocery shopping,”
which is every bit as tedious as the real thing.
Then it was time for a sing-along. The
OK, now I was hooked. I’m a big fan of
humping in general, and I love a good mystery.
With each verse, poor Alice suffered yet another
humpectomy (each accompanied by the hearty
show of support, “Go, Alice, go!”), until finally...
Alice the camel hiis no humps,
Alice the camel has no humps,
Alice the camel has no humps,
’Cause Alice is a horse.
“She’s a horse?” I thought. “Good God, I didn’t
see that coming at all.” I was as surprised as I was
at the ending of The Sixth Sense. What a story.
“Sing it again, sing it again,” I cried, clap
ping my hands. Maybe this kid stuff wasn’t so
bad, after all.
But no, it was time for juice and cookies,
which was unfortunate because Ian had already
eaten an entire ice cream sundae. By the time I
got him home, he was so hopped up on sugar
he was shaking like Whitney Houston trying to
clear customs.
Then, he had a complete meltdown, a tor
rential crying jag not unlike my own tantrums
when people I am jealous of get great reviews
and win awards.
But this moment gave me the opportunity
to do the one kid-oriented activity for which I
am perfectly suited: handing him back to his
parents.
And that, my friends, is The Gospel
According to Marc. J D
If M arc A cito wants to hear the pitter-patter of
tittle feet he puts shoes on the dog. Write him at
marcacito@attbi. com.
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