Night is falling on the household of Ken Cuccinelli. Let’s call it bedtime in Coochville, where there’s a bunch of young’uns.
As usual, the Virginia attorney general and his wife split up the chore of getting the kids settled into their slumbers. For
Ken, it’s story night for three pipsqueaks.
Let us imagine some of those scenes.
The attorney general enters his son’s room, and picks up a copy of Dr. Seuss’s “Horton Hatches The Egg.” He turns to the page he’d stopped reading from the night before.
“Very well,” said the elephant, “since you insist
You want a vacation. Go fly off and take it.
I’ll sit on your egg and I’ll try not to break it.
I’ll stay and be faithful. I mean what I say.”
“Toodle-oo!” sang out Mayzie and fluttered away.
There’s a pause, and the little boy says, “read the next page, Daddy.”
“Sure,” Ken says.
“It’s like taking the pill,” the free bird laughed out loud
“No egg will bind me in a nest stuck in branch!
“I’ll do what I want, I might buy a ranch.”
But that made God mad, so Mayzie flew at her peril,
And when she hit ground God made her quite sterile.
The little boy seems confused.
“Daddy,” he says, “why does mommy read it different?”
“I borrowed this edition from Uncle Bobby,” Ken says to his son. “You know — Del. Bob Marshall.”
“Is Uncle Bobby Dr. Seuss?!” the little boy asks in wonder and amazement.
“No. He’s much better,” Cuccinelli says. “Night, night.”
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