The whole “Sir” part really is self-mockery. I’m a second-generation American, descended on the maternal side from low-born, working class Britons, who fled for the Land of Opportunity in the late 1930s. I am definitely not a knight. Not even when I change the litter boxes without being asked.
I have legs of lead. This is readily apparent to anyone who’s bothered to check my dailymile stats.
There is a huge rock near the West Trenton Traffic Light. In it is embedded a historical marker that commemorates the spot where General Washington’s troops split into two flanks – one went to the 7-Eleven, and the other went to the Dunkin’ Donuts, I think? – en route to the infamous sneak attack on the Hessian troops in Trenton, which turned the tide of the Revolution. When you read to the bottom of the marker, you learn that the land where I currently take up residence was once called “Birmingham.” Given the reputation – largely earned, I’m afraid – Trenton carries these days, I’m surprised nobody has lobbied to have the place name of our neighborhood changed back to Birmingham. Or, “South Hopewell?” “East Yardley,” anyone? Anyway, Birmingham.
Ergo, Sir Legs-o-Lead of Birmingham. In an internet filled with trillions of little pieces of excrement, this cannot be among the worst of them. Can it?