So now, for all nominees, word to all you motherfathers:
When your age is some number higher than 21, and your son or daughter's age is something I could count to even after a massive aphasic stroke, simply by using my fingers,
And whereupon, in describing a procedure or treatment to you, as the nominal parent of said child,
You immediately defer and confer all decision-making capacity to the puppy-sized and stegosaurus-brained petite screaming pre-adolescent "No"-factory sitting on the gurney as the reason for tonight's visit,
You have just demostrated to me which member of your family is the Brains Of The Outfit, and who, in all likelihood, is the de facto dictator of the little Happyland banana republic you call your home.
So I swear to Buddha, I'm going to bring a bag of barbeque briquettes (say that five times fast) into work (mainly because health laws forbid me from serving you one of the carefully baked brownies I'd like to give you, lovingly made from water and a heaping scoop of 100%
Don't take it personally. Okay, just kidding, do. But maybe, take the charcoal home, grind it up, mix it with water, and drink the slurry. Because then it might suck the poison out of your system, but it's definitely going to create enough backpressure to stand a decent chance of popping your head out of there before your
Take that lesson to heart, you spineless motherfathers.