The little Gorgon and I watched The Count of Monte Cristo the other day and, in addition to being nowhere near as good as it was in the theatre, it provided ample material for ridicule. The really tangential commentary set in while Albert was bouncing about the Roman Mardi Gras festivities. After the dear boy received a kiss from some anonymous girl, the little Gorgon blinked and muttered, "That was random."

I shrugged. "It's Mardi Gras. What do you expect? And remember, it's all premeditated."

"Well, still, why's he running after her? It's not like she's the only girl there."

"He thought she was pretty. And if he didn't go after her, he couldn't get kidnapped by the bandits and everything would be thrown off."

"Well still, she's not the only one there... Maybe he's afraid of getting mono." He adopted a nasal voice. "Hey, milady!" he squawked in what was presumably an impression of a medically conscious Albert. "Milady, come back! Can I see some medical records? D'you have mono? TB? Ebola? Been to Africa lately?"

I think I swatted him with a pillow at that point, and he laughed. "Joly should talk like that."

"Dunce, not even he's that paranoid. And he does have a girlfriend."

"Oh, right, doesn't he have like, half a mistress?"

I blinked. Don't say I never taught my brothers anything. "Um. That's an interesting way of putting it." Before I could make some pointed comment about how the boy would know far more about Joly if he would just read the unabridged version, he spoke up again.

"Yeah, that's right! She's, like, community property."

Right. I have to admit I laughed for about five minutes. Whether it was his tone of voice or the idea of Musichetta as community property that did it, I don't know. When I finished choking, the little Gorgon was snorting at a reveler on the screen ("Stupid tamborine-rattling thing clattering around like a drunk absinthe-drinker...") and sputtering at the scene of Albert's kidnapping.

"Where the heck are they?" he demanded. "And what's with the skulls?"

"They're in the Parisian catacombs," I informed him pompously.

"Right," he answered amiably. "Except they're in Rome."

Pause. "Oh." Another pause. "Uhh. They moved them."

And then their was the little Gorgon's criticism of Albert's birthday ensemble: "What's he think he's wearing, the spandex-wearing freak? Oh, wait a minute... Just answered that, didn't I?"

It wasn't actually spandex, por supeusto, but there was quite a resemblance.

For my part, I sneered at the ladies' dresses, gushed over the mens' suits, and drove the little Gorgon crazy by yapping about Manchurian fabrics ("They're French!" he protested, as if this meant they couldn't import cloth). I also noticed that, since it had allegedly been sixteen years since the story began, it was 1830. Naturally, I had to ecstatically exclaim that Albert could go to the barricades in two years and get himself killed if he wanted to.

The little Gorgon seemed to find the "if he wanted to" bit terribly amusing and saw fit to add, "He'd only be, like, eighteen."

"So?" quoth I, "There's no age limit for foolhardy rebels."

"And Gavroche is, like, young," my esteemed sibling continued, oblivious.

"Thirteen at most," I muttered, and then proceeded to explain that Albert could actually get himself killed in 1830 if he so chose.

Etcetera. Entirely typical and mildly comforting.

Adieu.