Whispered Screams of 1000 Lunatics

The voices in my head have communicated to me that the New World Order is actually the ultimate in ironic trickery. The newest of world orders here has made it perfectly clear that there will be no order. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The Order, or as we call him, "Al", does not care what any of us is doing. He simply cries out a snap of his fingers and we come running. It is virtually impossible to entertain the idea of any behavior other than ultimate servitude. Al, however, does not let good behavior go unrewarded. He offers cuddling and coos, poops and pees, and the look on his face when he's trying to compensate for his undeveloped neck muscles and therefore publicizes the strain of lifting his head, along with the resulting lines in his forehead, is priceless. He is the talk of the town. It is a pleasure to live vicariously through him. Everyone offers their kind words like, "He's so cute!", or "He's the cutest boy in the entire world!" I am content with these verbalized emotional endorsements because I am content in the knowledge that any other type of response (read "negative") would indicate ignorant envy of the highest magnitude and would highlight that individual's inability to properly define the word "cute". Such elementary definitions aside, the boy truly is cute. I recently alluded to our symbiotic relationship. The key to my happiness is that "Al" looks very much like me. When he gets praise, I get praise. Simple math. It's like they're all saying, "Mark, your genes are of the most superior lineage and your power and majestic destiny are emblematic of this superiority, will you date my daughter?" I am happily married, and so, I decline these advances. We are happy with the addition to our family and I look forward to Nerdfest 2020 when he's 12, and a Junior in college, making his peers look silly and comically obsolete.