Back to Nick's Homepagewas born a poor black child... No, wait a minute, that was Steve Martin.
kay, now I remember. I was born. Not that I actually remember being born, of course. I mean, I was there, but I wasn't paying that much attention. There were all kinds of distractions, not the least of which was the fact that I was buck naked in a room full of strangers, and one of them was hitting me. Later, as I grew more used to such treatment, I became better at committing my experiences to memory for later recounting to rapt audiences such as, well, you. At this point it scarcely phases me.
ut I digress. Actually, since I hadn't truly gotten started, I can't really be accused of digression. Although I could, I suppose, be cited for a certain insufficiency of direction, but that's hardly the point now, is it?. I mean, consider where the New World would be if Christopher Columbus had had a better sense of direction. Somewhere in China I imagine, and I can't even speak the language. Now that'd be a fine mess, and all because of an overdeveloped sense of where one is going. Now where was I?
h yes... being born. It was in a hospital, as was the custom in those days. It was before the discovery of electricity, so the doctor had to use a coal-fired ultrasound imager, which has left me to this day with a profound fear of banana nut bread. It was a difficult delivery, requiring special arrangements with Federal Express and the assistance of a guy in a gorilla suit who claimed to be a driver for UPS, but who I suspect just liked hanging around hospitals. They had to use a suction device to break my grip on whatever part of my mother's anatomy I was using to delay my entrance into that uninviting place. It ended up sucking much of my brain out through the top of my head, an injury which would in later years limit my choice of career to that of politics or computer science.
ater, after my parents were unsuccessful in their final attempt to exchange me for a coffee maker, or even to get their money back, I got to come home for the first time. But not for the last time. In spite of my parents' diligence in covering their tracks, I managed to track them down every time they moved so my life has been, in a sense, one long series of homecomings. But the first time is the one you remember, and if I what brain I had been left with hadn't been a mostly formless blob of smooth gray matter, I probably would have remembered that one.
ut enough about me for now. Tune in later for another exciting episode in the fascinating story of what passes for my life.