birth defects in humans

Last night, Eliot and I watched "Beetlejuice", and when Betelgeuse finds the whorehouse, called "Danteapos;s Inferno Room"�or similar, I�had to explain Dante to Eliot. And then we got into Faust� and Paganini and other talks of the devil.� Real cheerful after-school special stuff.� Anyyway, I�donapos;t exactly believe in God or heaven, so I�therefore donapos;t have a lot of thoughts about Satan or hell or what have you, but sometimes I�find myself saying, "Iapos;d sell my soul for a..." So far, Old Scratch (also variously called, according to an interesting Google search, Mr Bendy, Sir Cloots, Old Gooseberry, and Mr Horny, which make the king of the underworld sound more like a Labrador retriever) has taken me up on my offer, perhaps because my soul is dessicated and worthless.� Or maybe only Catholics or Italians get to make deals with the devil. �I�mean, after all, you donapos;t ever hear about a Polish quasi-Jew being possessed or getting the stigmata, so this could be all genetics. �I am sort of unclear on all that.� But I�know that if I�AM�ever availed of my soul in return for something, it will not happen on the day when I�wish for a swimming pool full of usable $100 bills, the ability to teleport, or a hungry Jeff Goldblum securely tied to the hot water heater in my garage.� It will happen when I�wish, as I very fervently wished this morning, for an everything bagel with a schmear.� Because thatapos;s how my life rolls. �

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