Hattip to Instapundit. I tend not to read much fiction, but I will make an exception for this, which takes a look at the parents of a very unique precious snowflake:
Alan and I knew instantly that our child was exceptional. He was just so adorable, with his pentagram birthmark and little, grasping claws. His red eyes gleamed with intelligence. When the doctors came in with all their charts, they just confirmed what we already knew. Our child was “one of a kind” and “unlike any creature born of man.”
Alan and I were ecstatic — but also a little bit nervous. Raising a gifted child is a huge responsibility. And we were determined not to squander Ben’s talents. We vowed then and there that we would do all we could to ensure he achieved his full potential.
The first step was getting him into the right preschool. We figured it would be a breeze, given Ben’s obvious star quality. But, to our great surprise, he struggled with the interview requirement. At Trevor Day, a teacher asked him how old he was. Instead of saying “three,” he gored open her stomach and then pinned her to the ceiling with his mind. We were able to get him an interview at Trinity, thanks to a family connection. But when Ben saw the crucifix in the lobby, his eyes turned black and the walls wept blood. Why was Ben behaving this way? There was only one logical explanation: attention deficit disorder. We took him to a specialist on Park Avenue, and within five minutes our son had his first prescription for Ritalin.
The Kilmax, I noticed, had produced several troubling side effects. Ben’s eyes — usually so bright and searing — had dimmed to a pale ocher. His horns were pointed downward and his fur was falling out in clumps. I was telling him about another option — the birthright trip to Israel — when he suddenly held up his claw, cutting me off midsentence.
“No . . . more.”
I screamed for Alan, and he came running.
“Ben spoke!” I cried. We leaned in toward our son, keeping as still as possible. Ben gasped a few times, obviously struggling. Eventually, though, he managed to continue.
“No more . . . arrrrrgh! Pleeeeeaseeeearrrrrgh! Me . . . not . . . sick. Me . . . arrrrrrrgh! Monster. Let . . . be . . . monster. Let be monster.”
My eyes filled with tears. I’d always assumed that Ben would never talk — and now here he was, carrying on a full conversation!
If Ben could master language, there was no limit to what he could achieve. I whipped out my iPhone and typed in Han’s number from memory.
It was time to start thinking about law school.
Go here to read the hilarious rest.