Dear Sir or Madam,

Although you and I are not terribly familiar yet (I’d have you use the service entrance and the corrugated fiberchina were you to dine at my estate), I believe it is safe to assume that you have a father — or at least a serendipitously endowed mother. Father, from the Latin ‘pater,’ meaning father. The father provides a seed within your mother’s loins and then another within your mind. A seed of means and promise. Unless, of course, your birth was illegitimate. Then you’re just some twice-fucked doomchild. Do take steps to prevent this from having had happen to you.

My own father was a Gentleman, as was his father before him. I, however, was fortunate enough not to inherit the indefinite article. Father instructed me in the ways of tact and dignity and generally avoiding buttfacery, I mostly listened. One time, he took me hunting. Another time, we went to the circus. Actually, now that I think of it, that might have been the same time. Father and I parted ways amicably at age eleven (I was nine) though we still chat now and again. I hung around with some other fathers after that, but now I’m trying to get better acquainted with me.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site