My one-legged wife, Eileen, gave birth to our first child early this morning. I'm so proud of them both: Eileen for doing all that painful pushing stuff and little Pat - named after Mrs Nixon - for umm... having the courage to be a hero. They're both at the hospital doing all that sleeping stuff under the watchful eye of one nurse with more money than sense. The nurse may be as poor as the driven snow, with brains to match, but they can rest assured, and I can write assured, that she won't do anything hideously wrong as said nurse is in turn being watched by her Agency handlers, who are fully trained in the ways of post-natal care and carry stethoscopes to blend in.
The wonderful doctor with the fake moustache says that Pat is going to suffer from the same genetic leg defect that took Eileen's left leg. There is hope though; apparently medicine has come on leaps and bounds since Eileen was born and they can now manage the defect of having lemur for a femur with as little effort as possible. They say Pat should be able to live as normally as her other genes will allow. They say a lot of things though, and most of them are placating lies, so I'm just hanging back and see how things go. Despite not trusting Them, I'm blindly optimistic; that might just be a result of umm... blind optimism.
The treatment is simplicity itself: do nothing. Cut off from food, water, air, light and all the other staples of lemur life, the lemur dies within a matter of pain-ridden hours. Rigor mortis soon follows, locking the lemur in position. In due course (six weeks later) all the fur and eyeballs will have rotted away and Pat will need a total blood transfusion or she'll die of septicaemia. (Oh yeah, now it affects me I must urge all of you to go give blood). After that she'll have a little lemur skeleton as a more than adequate surrogate femur. Barring any further complications - there's only a one in three chance that the lemur will have a miniature lemur for a femur - she'll never need to see a dum nurse and moustachioed doctor again, apart from all that injection stuff and accidentally poking a sharpened clarinet right through her hand at the age of thirty six.
What follows is less believable but equally true; if you have any doubts or questions, take them up with Charles Darwin, Clarence Darrow or any other dead person whose first name begins with C and whose surname begins with Dar. Following some never to be spoken of incident deep in the mists of time, Eileen and Pat are descended from lemurs. (Or for heretics, God works in mysterious ways). The only difference between these rare people descended from lemurs and people descended from umm... monkeys is umm... big eyes. And due to inter-breeding back in the day they sometimes have lemurs for femurs. Yeah, it doesn't make sense to me either; take it up with one of the dead folk.
If only these lemur people had spread the gene pool about back in the aforementioned day, then they might be a viable alternative to humans, or at least have added another string to our collective curtsey. The lemur femur gene is apparently dominant, but with only Eileen and Pat left, the chances of world domination are small. I suppose I've just gotta let nature take its course; who am I to mess with evolution? A proud father who wants to be a grandfather, that's 'oo; I'm gonna raise my little girl to be a slut. Like her mom.