When you were conceived, as he was sending his seed up into your mother’s ovaries, your biological father was fixated not on your mother but Brigitte Bardot, and so you’ve spent your entire childhood hinged to an Oedipal connection to lovely Brigitte, though never quite known why. Through high school you get straight A’s in French 1, 2, and 3 and go on to get your Masters in French Lit at an ivy league college. As a graduation gift, your father presents you the Playboy magazine collection he’s amassed over the past thirty something years and digging through the stacks, you come across the famous November, 1958 issue where Brigitte appeared in her first nude pictorial (a best-selling issue). You subtract nine months from your birthday and sure enough, you come up with November, 1958, the month the Bardot centerspread would’ve been hovering in the mind of many a married man. You deduce that dad - being the ponderous sort, a quality you too have inherited – must have been more interested in the girl in the magazine than the wife on the bed, and so in much the same way an adopted child goes on the search for his or her biological parents, you go on the quest to find Brigitte, succeed, find out you have more in common with her than your real mother, and ultimately conclude that science is less powerful than sexual imagination.