The evil bourgeois and the new age.

Wednesday or Thursday 10:35 p.m.
                                                      We lived in a dugout hole in the ground and my name was Patrick. My several elder brothers were all called Patrick because there were no snakes around. Every other kind of pestilence had taken them down when they were babies, and they had gone to heaven without having to do any work, and I was the last Patrick. As a child, once I could sit up, they placed me in front of the fire and covered my nether regions with moss, but sometimes there was no moss and I just sat there. All around me the pigs and the dogs and the human beings squabbled and fought, and sometimes tried to kill each other. But they were always nice to me since all the other Patricks had died young, and everyone knows that only Protestants hate babies, and that's why they only have two of them, one real one, and another in case the first one dies.
                                                     Sometimes, when I was very young, I got smacked when I strayed towards the fire, but other than that I was left alone, and, in fact, I didn't have a name until I was about five when all the grown ups had decided that I might not die suddenly. Tentatively, I was called Patrick, like the other Patricks who had gone before.
                                                   When my auld maw got old, everyone was amazed because being old in those times meant that you lived till you were about thirty five, but when my auld maw got old, everyone was so amazed that they sat around and talked to her and asked her what it was like to be so old, and no one ever expected to be as old as she was. And she told us about the dragons that used to inhabit the land, and the elves, and the other fabulous beasts, and I could hear her telling this to the other bigger children when I sat there coming into understanding, in the ashes beside the fire.
                                               And when the auld maw could not look after herself properly, no one was surprised or bothered about this because, really, no one tried to look after themselves and no one could by themselves. There was just the wee ones sitting in the ashes by the fire, and the big ones fighting and squabbling and the old ones smoking their pipes by the fire near the wee ones, and hitting their fingers when they were going to get burned.
                                               What's all this about, Hotboy? I hate them, Jack, and I'm sorry that I do. They hate each other more than I could ever do! The evil bourgeois with their gardens and their walls and their different kinds of child and old people abuse, and all of that. I hate the compassionless, selfish basturns, every one. And I hope there is a hell waiting for them. I really do!