1591. “Dad,” I said, “This is all lies and made up stupidities. First of all this is not even a G on the button, and the entire story sounds like a silly fairy tale, and if you ask me, anyone who attempts to make their life conform to fairy tales is asking for trouble. Just give up on Mom from now on, and make the best of our situation, because I have a very bad feeling about crossing enemy lines to talk to some General about my ancestry.
1592. But my Dad would listen to no objections. “Why do you always have to be so negative,” he asked. “Yes,” the Duck interjected, “the objection to being negative was just as often used a thousand years ago as it is today. And it was used in exactly the same way, to eradicate all of the observations that might interfere with a persons plunging themselves headlong into a disaster.”
1593. And the son had a right to his negativity, seeing as the father was dragging his son into the disaster along with himself, a thing he had no right to do. But he was a headstrong optimist, as you will see.
1594. My father and I headed out for the enemy lines; Dad carrying the brass button in his hand out in front of him, thinking it would serve as a passport as well as a good omen. At the border crossing they carefully examining the button. The guards passed the button around from one to another and only commented that it was most likely not a G but probably a C with some scratches making it look a little like a G.