How To
The Non-Expert: New England Patriot
Experts answer what they know. The Non-Expert answers anything. In light of this week’s John Kerry Convention, ROSECRANS BALDWIN helps a man who suspects his two-year-old son is a Democrat, or something much much worse.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- The Hot ______ of the Summer (Of Recent Note)
- Staycations (Of Recent Note)
- Ways We're Saving Money (Of Recent Note)
Also by Rosecrans Baldwin
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- The Non-Expert: Term Paper (June 3, 2005)
- The Non-Expert: 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover (May 27, 2005)
- The Non-Expert: Gypsy Cabs (May 20, 2005)
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Question: My two-year-old son was watching TV with me last night and he saw John Kerry on the tv and called him daddy. And called him daddy again. Now I know he was talking about Kerry when he pointed but we don’t even look alike. Please tell me my son is not going to grow up to be a Democrat. I can live with some things but we’re talking about my son here. —James M.
Answer: James, you’re in trouble. Or at least your marriage is. Though I’m pretty sure your son isn’t a Democrat (children don’t know enough to choose one party or another, and if anything they’ll choose their parents’ affiliation, which in your case I’m guessing is more red than blue) there is a good chance, and I don’t say this lightly, that your wife is the Hanoi hoochie to Kerry’s “Band of Brothers.”
Or was, shall we say, about three years ago. Just look at the signs: was she traveling a lot “on business” to Boston? Is she the type to go home with a gawkishly tall, yet capable bass player? What’s her position on the assault-weapons ban?
My friend, you have bigger things to worry about than how your son may someday vote. A few experiments to test the waters:
Test: The Energy Crisis
Replace the batteries in your TV’s remote with a pair of drained substitutes. Let your two-year-old son discover the remote is dead, then inform him it’s his job to buy the new batteries. Use that tone your wife likes to use when she’s aware you’ll fail at the small task in question—like you do, she implies, at everything else. (And not just because you have small hands; no one’s to blame for a medical condition.)
If he waits a minimum of two weeks before driving to the store, take him out for ice cream. Someday he will turn into an interesting, complex man of decent values, who simply isn’t understood by his boss and wife.
If, however, he invents an alternative to alkaline power, or swaps the dead batteries for the good ones in your shaver, put him to bed with no dinners for a month. Or try the belt. Kids don’t learn respect until it keeps them up at night.
Test: Bunk Duty
Ask your son to fold a fitted sheet neatly so it can be stored in the linen closet. Admittedly this is a near-impossible task, especially for a guy, let’s say, who’s got a lot on his mind. The type of guy, for instance, whose wife’s been behaving oddly nice toward that Bolshevik Korean across the street.
If your two-year-old son crumples up the sheet, or tries to eat it, or ties it around his neck as a cape, give him 20 bucks and a trip to Toys ‘R’ Us. Those are creative solutions, the kind most people don’t appreciate. People like your supervisor at work, who wouldn’t know a revolutionary competitive report if it smacked him in the kisser.
Now, if the sheet is folded into a crisp and slender package, then he obviously must have cheated when you weren’t looking. Don’t go too hard on him—remember when you snuck a peek at Jerry Goldenberg’s history exam? But do punish him so he learns his lesson. After all, cheaters do not get named “Most Valuable Marketer, Indian Summer ‘88,” do they?
If he admits to cheating, give him a medal. If he throws it into the neighbor’s yard, make him de-worm the dog.
Test: Family Values
Call your mother-in-law on her birthday, and right as she answers, hand the phone to your son.
If he manages a meaningful conversation in a tone that suggests he’s both enjoying himself and raising some key issues regarding prescription drug care for the elderly, and if it lasts for more than three minutes, lock him in the basement for a week.
If instead he quickly passes the phone to your wife with a roll of his eyes and maybe a condescending smirk, then chances are good he’ll someday quarterback for the Patriots. Or he may only dream of doing so, knowing in his soul he’s quite satisfied writing competitive reports for TIAA-CREF. Because he realizes that, ultimately, America is built by many hands, even those still too small to pinch a football one-handed at frickin’ age 46.
Test: The Secret Ballot
The next time your wife—using that voice, God it’ll be stuck in your head forever—the next time she asks you in that voice to go “down there,” excuse yourself with a promise to be right back. Go down the hall and wake up your son. Lead him by the hand to your bedroom.
If he is repulsed by the idea, or just a bit tweaked out, or if he gives it the old college try for two minutes—which feel like twenty minutes, oh my God—then there is absolutely nothing wrong when he returns unsuccessful. Because there’s no shame in knowing you tried your best, especially at something everyone already says is impossible. If anything, he deserves some frickin’ praise for having tried in the first place. Because stuff “down there” is for gays anyway, and there is a reason sodomy’s illegal in 13 states.
If he is successful, however…If he succeeds and overcomes the impossible, as no man has done before in a thousand years, and in the ensuing moans and screeches you hear a noise from your wife that sounds oddly like Ron or Barry, or like something you remember hearing on the TV, more like Lawn Prairie—and had you ever noticed your son’s rather magnificent hair?—then you know what you must do.
Because now you have your evidence, strong enough for a jury. The kind of proof only a man of your cunning could have uncovered. You are a genius, and to top it all off, you’re sitting on a frickin’ gold mine: Under your roof lives an heir to the Heinz millions, and if there’s nothing more American than blackmailing a rich politician over a sexual kerfuddle, then you don’t know what.
Go out and win one for the Gipper.
Question: My two-year-old son was watching TV with me last night and he saw John Kerry on the tv and called him daddy. And called him daddy again. Now I know he was talking about Kerry when he pointed but we don’t even look alike. Please tell me my son is not going to grow up to be a Democrat. I can live with some things but we’re talking about my son here. —James M.
Answer: James, you’re in trouble. Or at least your marriage is. Though I’m pretty sure your son isn’t a Democrat (children don’t know enough to choose one party or another, and if anything they’ll choose their parents’ affiliation, which in your case I’m guessing is more red than blue) there is a good chance, and I don’t say this lightly, that your wife is the Hanoi hoochie to Kerry’s “Band of Brothers.”
Or was, shall we say, about three years ago. Just look at the signs: was she traveling a lot “on business” to Boston? Is she the type to go home with a gawkishly tall, yet capable bass player? What’s her position on the assault-weapons ban?
My friend, you have bigger things to worry about than how your son may someday vote. A few experiments to test the waters:
Test: The Energy Crisis
Replace the batteries in your TV’s remote with a pair of drained substitutes. Let your two-year-old son discover the remote is dead, then inform him it’s his job to buy the new batteries. Use that tone your wife likes to use when she’s aware you’ll fail at the small task in question—like you do, she implies, at everything else. (And not just because you have small hands; no one’s to blame for a medical condition.)
If he waits a minimum of two weeks before driving to the store, take him out for ice cream. Someday he will turn into an interesting, complex man of decent values, who simply isn’t understood by his boss and wife.
If, however, he invents an alternative to alkaline power, or swaps the dead batteries for the good ones in your shaver, put him to bed with no dinners for a month. Or try the belt. Kids don’t learn respect until it keeps them up at night.
Test: Bunk Duty
Ask your son to fold a fitted sheet neatly so it can be stored in the linen closet. Admittedly this is a near-impossible task, especially for a guy, let’s say, who’s got a lot on his mind. The type of guy, for instance, whose wife’s been behaving oddly nice toward that Bolshevik Korean across the street.
If your two-year-old son crumples up the sheet, or tries to eat it, or ties it around his neck as a cape, give him 20 bucks and a trip to Toys ‘R’ Us. Those are creative solutions, the kind most people don’t appreciate. People like your supervisor at work, who wouldn’t know a revolutionary competitive report if it smacked him in the kisser.
Now, if the sheet is folded into a crisp and slender package, then he obviously must have cheated when you weren’t looking. Don’t go too hard on him—remember when you snuck a peek at Jerry Goldenberg’s history exam? But do punish him so he learns his lesson. After all, cheaters do not get named “Most Valuable Marketer, Indian Summer ‘88,” do they?
If he admits to cheating, give him a medal. If he throws it into the neighbor’s yard, make him de-worm the dog.
Test: Family Values
Call your mother-in-law on her birthday, and right as she answers, hand the phone to your son.
If he manages a meaningful conversation in a tone that suggests he’s both enjoying himself and raising some key issues regarding prescription drug care for the elderly, and if it lasts for more than three minutes, lock him in the basement for a week.
If instead he quickly passes the phone to your wife with a roll of his eyes and maybe a condescending smirk, then chances are good he’ll someday quarterback for the Patriots. Or he may only dream of doing so, knowing in his soul he’s quite satisfied writing competitive reports for TIAA-CREF. Because he realizes that, ultimately, America is built by many hands, even those still too small to pinch a football one-handed at frickin’ age 46.
Test: The Secret Ballot
The next time your wife—using that voice, God it’ll be stuck in your head forever—the next time she asks you in that voice to go “down there,” excuse yourself with a promise to be right back. Go down the hall and wake up your son. Lead him by the hand to your bedroom.
If he is repulsed by the idea, or just a bit tweaked out, or if he gives it the old college try for two minutes—which feel like twenty minutes, oh my God—then there is absolutely nothing wrong when he returns unsuccessful. Because there’s no shame in knowing you tried your best, especially at something everyone already says is impossible. If anything, he deserves some frickin’ praise for having tried in the first place. Because stuff “down there” is for gays anyway, and there is a reason sodomy’s illegal in 13 states.
If he is successful, however…If he succeeds and overcomes the impossible, as no man has done before in a thousand years, and in the ensuing moans and screeches you hear a noise from your wife that sounds oddly like Ron or Barry, or like something you remember hearing on the TV, more like Lawn Prairie—and had you ever noticed your son’s rather magnificent hair?—then you know what you must do.
Because now you have your evidence, strong enough for a jury. The kind of proof only a man of your cunning could have uncovered. You are a genius, and to top it all off, you’re sitting on a frickin’ gold mine: Under your roof lives an heir to the Heinz millions, and if there’s nothing more American than blackmailing a rich politician over a sexual kerfuddle, then you don’t know what.
Go out and win one for the Gipper.
—Published July 30, 2004
