This morning, I was greeted with the news that Fantasia is pregnant. She hasn’t named the father, but she has been with Antwaun Cook.

I do not have even a nodding acquaintance with either of these people and you probably don’t either.

Maybe I’m just in a lousy mood today, or maybe I’m just generally a grouch, but I don’t see how this is news.

Look. I’m happy to know somebody, somewhere, is getting it, but I don’t want to know about it.

I long for the days when people kept their business to themselves.

For crying out loud, I miss the days when Britney Spears swore up one side and down the other she was a virgin and butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth if anyone challenged her.

I look at Taylor Swift and think she is the worst kind of trash because she can’t seem to help but kiss and tell.

Maybe I’m the only person left in the world who remembers the concept of mixed company, and who adheres to the adage that a lady never shows her panties except on purpose.

Maybe I’m the only person left in the world who truly believes there are some things you just don’t talk about in front of all and sundry, and there are some things you just don’t ask others about.

Maybe I am the only person left in the world who understands that people get knocked up all the time and, if the father isn’t present or mentioned, it is incumbent upon the rest of us to assume he is at war and leave it at that.

Hell, maybe I’m just old.