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Of Presidents And Precocity

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Of Presidents And Precocity

All this recent cock-roach-being and cherry-orchard-selling has diverted my attentions from both the up-coming presidential election and the progress of my beautiful son, N. Aeschylus. I must admit, how-ever, that I am far more concerned about the latter. As I have said here before, I am disgusted by the sad state of politics.

Of course, I was raised at a time when politicians were fear-less men of character and vision. During our periodic visits to Washington, my father would take me to the public beheadings of the president's political opponents on the lawn of the Executive-Mansion. One could barely negotiate the steps of the Capitol, so slick with blood were they! Voting was virtually an erotic pleasure: As you slipped your dozen or so ballots into the ballot-box, you felt confident knowing that you had chosen the greater of two evils.

Not so today. Recently, I had a look-see at the two candidates on the electrical motion image box, and I wanted to smother myself with my own pillow! The Republican looks like he still requires the services of a wet-nurse, and the Democrat resembles a large pudding.

Given these dismal prospects, I find I have no choice but to throw my support behind the Copper-heads this year. I realize they have fallen greatly out of favor since the end of the Civil-War, and haven't a ghost of a chance for victory this autumn, but I want to send a message.

At least I have my precious N. Aeschylus to cheer me in this bleak time. The servants never told him that his papa turned into a cock-roach, for fear that it would shatter his innocent world-view. But upon becoming roughly human again, I asked Standish to wheel me down to the nursery.

I was delighted to find that the precocious dear was doing well in his studies. Gas burners were boiling chemical concoctions, electric current flowed from filaments, and N. Aeschylus was hard at work welding sheets of metal with white-hot beams that shot from his eyes. The walls of the nursery were gaily decorated with hand-painted adages such as "The Circuits Will Be Broken" and "Destroy All Biology." Not even a year old and already the tot has the work-ethic of an Edison!

"Sweet boy!" I cried out. But this startled N. Aeschylus, as he nearly blasted Standish's head clean off. Though I yearned to be in N. Aeschylus' youthful company, I decided to leave him to his work. The future seemed far brighter to me now, knowing that N. Aeschylus will surely be in its vanguard!

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