Chips &
Ripov
by Albert Russo
The day little Daphne was
bom, Ripov saw the world in a new light. He never
imagined that fatherhood could be so totally, so
delightfully, engrossing. He had eyes only for
little Daphne, to the point where he became
oblivious to the baby's mother who, feeling
neglected, dejected, then utterly disgusted,
decided to leave the household.
A staunch believer in
progress, and having read extensively about the
marvels of computer education, Ripov sent baby
Daphne to computergarten even before enrolling
her at the Teenie Weenie Swimmers Club. The
results were stunning and the days seemed to be
made of 24 minutes apiece.
At age one, little Daphne
could count and read Pascal. At two she spoke
Spanish, Russian and Kangooreese. On the eve of
her fourth birthday she was able to juggle with
algebraic equations and survey the map of our
galaxy, identifying novas.
She'd just turned six when
she presented Ripov with a chart of the universe
as it would appear a million years hence. So awed
was Ripov by the extent of her learning
capabilities and her powers of reasoning that he
soon began to develop a complex. He consulted the
famed Parent Clinic where he was told that he had
contracted C.H.I.P.S. (Computer Hyper-Immunity
Parental Syndrome), a disease so rarely
encountered that even the most advanced computers
refused to decode it. Without being aware of it,
Ripov began to ape his daughter. He would talk in
a high-pitched voice and bob his head while
smacking his lips. He wondered why all of a
sudden in the street transvestites stole such
lustful glances at him. To outsiders he acted as
little Daphne's manservant. She never needed to
lift an eyebrow nor raise her voice. Ripov waited
on her hand and foot, anticipating her every whim.
Little Daphne even managed to project him onto
the videoscreen and cast him in her games as her
referee.
Ripov floated in a sort of
amniotic bliss. He would dream of little Daphne
resting on a magnificent coral throne and
surrounded by exotic fishes. She would address
her Council of Ripov clones and devise new
measures to extend her filial authority.
Ripov couldn't understand
why his friends pitied him. "A maze of split
personalities", they'd mutter.
“I'm the richer for it,"
he'd answer them calmly. “Thanks to my
darling little Daphne," he'd go on to
explain, "I've rediscovered the importance
of my genes and their megabyte memory. In a world
where it is so fashionable to claim one's social
status, religion or ethnic group, I have realized
that I'm but a chip, albeit indispensable, in the
cosmic network." At this stage, Ripov
suspected his friends of being envious. “They
still believe they can act as their children's
mentors," thought Ripov. To be taken care of
and dictated to by one's own progeny, wasn't that
the nec plus ultra, the key to happiness? Adult
tyranny had, after all, wrought only havoc
throughout the ages. That he appeared
irresponsible didn't bother Ripov the least; on
the contrary, he felt proud of it.
Little Daphne was now in
perfect control of her father’s life, to the
degree where she no longer reverted to
conventional computers. She would snap a finger
and immediately Ripov would respond. She tried
all kinds of experiments on her slavishly
obedient father. She'd make him bark or twitter
to probe his varied and boundless potentialities.
Even as he'd crawl, Ripov would deliver the most
sophisticated formula. To reward him, little
Daphne would let Ripov munch as many potato chips
as he wished, for even before contracting C.H.I.P.S.,
Ripov had been a chips freak.
And some people complain
about their children being difficult. Oh, to be
blessed with C.Hl.P.S.!
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