I got numerous friends and family who have produced male-style progenicalistical offspringuage.
Some of them are even you.
And they're pretty much all, for the most part, lovely young fellas with whom it's a pleasure to maintain lifelong relationships of varying degrees of avunculatude.
I don't got much, but I offer it up DAILY to the Creator in deepest most heartfelt thanks that I got a Ranette at home rather than a Pravira.
Because, you see, the thing is, if it WERE a man-kid, it would, it follows, be MY man-kid, and I'd know WAY TOO fucking much about what was going on inside his devious freckled conspiratorial duplicitous little cola nut-shaped noggin to EVER be able to relax, even for a fucking minute.
Example, right about now, I know I'd be just starting to randomly uncover ingeniously hidden dirty books (wait, do they even HAVE dirty books anymore??) all over the Palace, the provenance of which would be pretty simple to ascertain.
Instead, I come in and what do I catch The Ranette reading???
Dodged the fuck out of THAT fuckin bullet, any fuckin ways.
Oh yeah, and