Sorry to dissappoint, supernerds, but “next generation” is not a Star Trek reference. It’s a procreation reference. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.
Current and young clerks, you won’t know this, but in the olden days of clerking, back when the economy was better and the children were fewer, the clerks used to go on a semi-annual weekend retreat to a cabin in the mountains and go skiing or boating (depending on the season), and drinking and such. Old geezer clerks, remember the summer retreat where I brought my sister who was basically a slightly taller copy of me? Well this past weekend that sister had a baby, which is the first baby of my immediate family since herself. The same is true for her husband, so there was much rejoicing among the two families.
Well, eventually. Of course there was the 18 hours of screaming, after which they decided that the baby was too big and they had to cut it out like at the end of the movie Prometheus. In fact, if you’ve never seen a caesarian birth, that scene from Prometheus is the most accurate depiction in film. A bunch of sharp things rip open all your insides and pull out a slimy purple alien that shrieks and poops black evil. Ah, the miracle of life.
I was doubly joyous of the arrival, hoping this bundle of joy would distract my mother from the fact that I do not have a baby—a fact that has basically dominated her interest in me since I became of child-bearing age. But no dice. No sooner than they put the baby (who had transformed from slimy purple alien to pink squirmy potato) in Grandma’s arms did she turn to me and say, “so when are you having a baby?”
Well, that depends. How long will it take me to drink enough to forget everything that happened here today?
I guess I should get started on that drinking at poker tonight. Shall we gather at [——] around 8 pm? Bring lots of booze. RSVP so there are no surprises. After a 9 pound niece born two weeks early, I have had enough surprises for one month.