My little brother was born with a stick of dynamite in one hand and a match in the other, and when time came to cut the umbilical cord, Dad didn’t cut it—he lit it.
Okay, that’s not true. But if it were, we’d have called him [PANK].
Make no mistake: [PANK] is a little brother. Moreover, specifically, [PANK] is the little brother of Frankenstein’s monster, and as such, just as much a hodgepodge as any other little brother. Most of the time, the prose is indistinguishable from the poetry (or vice versa); the French tongue is butchered in one...