One wintry morning many years ago, my butler opened the door of my maison de campagne and discovered a basket of reeds with a baby inside. There was a note pinned to the swaddling cloth explaining that the baby's name was Jonathan Goldstein, who, due to an unspecified condition, had been born well on the other side of his prime. Here was a middle-aged-man baby. And one who had not lived well at that. He was doughy, rotund, and bald--and not baby bald, but Ed Asner bald. In fact the only thing baby-like about this creature were his genitals. Which were small.
I gave him the finest education money could buy. Elocution. Archery. Japanese stick fighting. And finally the day came to send young Goldstein out into the world--a hero's quest for my little hero! He was to fetch my dry cleaning. I'd lost the slip, but hoped he could get my pants anyway.
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