Yesterday was as good a day as any to be born. Just ask an officially seventy-four year old paper son. He managed to wingding double celebrations by way of flippancy for nary six score. But the crisis so to speak passed for the expectant parents-to-be. Both deemed the cursed day marked by its lack of gravity inappropriate for the grand entry of their scion. And this from those who would curse an offspring with a nickname rhyming with "spank", "stank", and no doubt "wank". A boy named Sue suffers less cruelly.
So what used to be a matter of luck, pacing back and forth, wearing out a rut of a miniature racetrack now is a predetermined shot-in-the-ass away. Where except in reruns of sitcomed fiction can you find the slapstick of childbirth anymore? Then puritan antiseptic hospital linens whitewashed the blood and gore. No wonder reality television rules nowadays.