I
was raised on Dr. Spock. Literaly. We had little to eat in my hometown village of Al-asabab, Sudan. At times, food was scarse. But my dear mother always managed to pull out the weathered copy of Dr. Spock's baby book when rations were low. A book that thick could have fed a Sudanese family of ten for six years. And that's before the glorious revolution. But paper gets to you after a while. One minute you're eating it; the next you're using it to wipe a runny behind.

Lately, I've felt as if this column has turned into an obituary for the famous, influential, and good dressers. The public figures of my life are dropping like love bugs in my headlights on U.S. 441, and a great hole is opening in my soul. My editor (a gentle man but he really should get out of his house more often and give up on his conspiracy theories involving Newt Gingrich, the Dukes of Hazzard, and his neighbor, Mr. Kringelein) has banned me from any more obituary columns. But like James Dean, I was born too fast to live, too young to die. And I have the key to the company restroom, so I don't think I'll be fired any time soon.

If it hadn't been for Dr. Spock, I might have grown up to be a disgruntled old man selling cheap comics and porno magazines on the streets of New York, Boston, or Bombay instead of being the highly regarded journalist that I am today. It was Dr. Spock who taught my mother to give me room to express myself, to respect my curiosity, and to breast feed me. For the latter, I will never cease to praise the good doctor. I, too, have since taken up such advice. Only my pet ferret, Hee-Man, doesn't take too kindly to my undeveloped breasts. If he only knew what he was missing.

Some labled Dr. Spock a radical for opposing the Vietnam War. True, he did train soldiers in the Vulcan grip, but he was only following orders. Others blamed his liberal child raising policies for the rise of heavy metal in the early 70s and the dominance of KISS for so many years. But those who strike the stone with such slander (nice alliteration, eh? - editor) should find themselves guilty of the greatest misreading of all time. Dr. Spock said to "make-up" with your children when fights erupt, not to smother them in make-up. In the words of George Jefferson, Gene Simmons' mom has a lot of splaining to do to her wayward boy. And he should be spanked for taking part in the production of "Beth" as well.

What is my point? What is my mission? What is the velocity of an African swallow? Such questions elude me in my time of mourning. Such questions strike at the root of all evil, the darkest hours of our childish desires, the sensuality of old men in boxer shorts picking up the morning paper. Dr. Spock is dead, damnit. Now who will take care of our children?

I for one am willing to take on the burden of responsiblity for leading our country into the next age of child rearing. I have begun work on my next book, tentatively titled: Spank Me? Spank You. I'm hoping Random House will pick it up. I've already tried one publisher, and their rejection letter read, and I quote, "You sick, sick bastard. You should be locked up forever. And where the hell is the godamn key to the john? I'm tired of peeing out the window." I should have known better than to try Yellow Dog publishing first.

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