Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Born Whistling

I was born whistling. You should have seen the look on my mother's face.

The doctor who delivered me did a double take on my nose squeezed flat in the birth canal, and said: "Little one, from the look of you, you don't have anything to be that happy about".

To this day there remains some dispute about what I came out whistling. Some claim it was Arnold Schoenberg's String Quartet No. 3, although I find that hard to believe. I never was much into atonality.

This was in fact the primary reason why I was quickly removed from the hospital nursery. At first I did my best trying to make my fellow newborns wail something nice a cappella. "Come on", I tried. "It will make this experience much less stressful for all of isle four, please make an effort to adjust your pitches!"

Because I had such a pale complexion, my father threatened to disown me, accusing my mother for having collected half of my DNA from some phlegmatic fella in the Baltics. Luckily he turned out to be a sucker for Cole Porter's "My heart belongs to Daddy", and so I whistled that until I entered primary school. By then, however, I could no longer strain myself from expelling the turbulence of "Gay Divorce" through my pursed little lips, and that marked the end of my parents' marriage.

Whether or not it was due to my whistling, though, remains unknown to me.

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