So, my old friend, Trotsky — not that Trotsky, the other one — has called me a big weenie for having all my gray matter roasted in tasty woks in Chinatown by my two radioactive youngins, leaving my cranium an echoey blimp hangar. Sure, ok, his youngest is a piece of work, BUT I’VE GOT TWO OF THOSE. And not only that, they walk around with their damn hands down their pants 23/6. It’s impossible to know just how many times I’ve ululated: “GET YOUR HAND OUTTA YOUR PANTS BEFORE I CALL SANTA.” They are both, alas, just like their irrepressible Grampa Scotty, who has one hand in his pants at all times, the other hand cradling a singlemalt scotch. Ahh, retirement!