My eldest son, an impossible clone of me with his mother’s eyes, the apple of my eye, the one who’s been taught good manners since the day he was born, the one whose dearest dream [at present] is to grow up, enobled, to be Spider-man, Iron Man or [eyes agleam with wonder, he breaths the words reverently] a knight [or even a ninja knight with powers and a super cape, Dad!]…
The other day, this well-mannered, fresh-scrubbed, lovingly nurtured, disciplined, young wonderkin let loose a juicy paint-peelin’ belch at the dinner table.
Afterwards he stood up and, plain as day, BELCHED the words, “Excuse me.”
BELCHED like a 50-foot crocodile with indigestion.
Then he walked off, apparently quite satisfied with his boyish stab at manners.
I am going to get the Dad of the Year Award, my friends.