Jesus Christ

This infant is radioactive.
And that stupid cow can't spell to save her
ass from the slaughterhouse.

Well, not exactly.


Remember when I was grousing about my nephew's not-so-immaculate deception?


 Consummatum est.


In English, whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

"Start the reactorrrrrr...I mean, hello Uncle!"

I suppose I should be overjoyed at the arrival of the latest proof of the virility of my race, but... meh.

It doesn't make me a villain for not greeting supposedly happy events like births and weddings with glee and salutations. Not all of these events are welcome - celebrations to the contrary - and anyway, my personal feelings about the matter will not impact the new parents' happiness one iota.


As it should be.


So my initial gift to you, my dear great-nephew, is my silence.

Which, I'll have you know, is golden.


I just texted my mother the news, and she should be doing cartwheels and backflips to put Catwoman to shame upon learning of her brand-new great-grandmotherhood  - if only her osteoporosis wasn't so bad.

Mom was a babe, back in the day.

Not.

Maybe she'll just take a flying leap off a balcony like Jezebel.


My brother, on the other hand, hasn't responded yet. Maybe he's still passed out from sheer ecstasy at becoming a young grandfather.

Double Not.


Our Lord and Master, Odin, has no idea that the line of succession to his golden throne is now three generational levels deep. None of us deemed it relevant that the Old God should know that his callow grandson has elevated him to great-grandfatherhood.

"Niggas, it would be wise not to inform the King of this birth."

More importantly, none of us wanted the total destruction of Asgard just yet.




As for me, daily hand washing is good. So says PAMET.

And I may be many things, but far be it from me to defy the Philippine Association of Medical Technologists.


At least I'm just Pilate.


Not Herod.



'Cause while I'm no niño inocente, that mofo put the "mess" in "messiah."

My current facial expression .

'Nuff said.