Early Dismissal Form for the Thoroughly Appalled

When William started kindergarten, I needed to arrange pick up from school on Mondays in lieu of the cheese wagon to accommodate his swim lesson. The proper nomenclature was "Student Pick Up," and it wasn't the easiest thing to invoke. It required a form to be filled out which I requested from the office. They dutifully added the paperwork to William's folder of "Things To Go Home." I hate filling out forms. Some time ago, I wrote a piece about my distain for filling out medical forms. Little did I know I was about to embark upon a form fiasco to get my son out of kindergarten early.

Willy and his Swim Instructor

I thought I filled out the "Student Pickup Form" correctly, but I got it sent back with William's bus number circled in red with a large "X" next to it. Admittedly I didn't look at the form all that closely because well, I'm an idiot. I know all this paperwork is supposed to ensure that my kid is handed off safely, but in truth there is very little actual safeguards. Like the Chapman lock I used to have in my Honda Prelude back in college, the only person kept out was me. I don't have a safe feeling that a properly filled out "Student Pickup Form" will prevent a stranger from snatching my kid from the chaotic exchange in the gym, just like when my car along with the Chapman lock was stolen in broad daylight.

When I filled out the form, I had to delineate what I wanted William to do each day of the week which was mostly "Get on Bus 22, and ride it home." On Mondays he was to go to the gym and wait for me to pick him up for his swim lesson. I inadvertently filled out his bus number on Mondays as well as checked "Pick up." Apparently that was not what you were supposed to do. So I crossed out the "22" and returned the form to William's folder.

The next day I got the form back. The reason for early dismissal was circled and annotated with another red "X." I entered "Swim Lesson" then sent it back. When Monday rolled around, and I went to pick up William, he wasn't in the gym. I asked the woman in charge where he was. She looked into it then told me that William was not on the list. I went to the office and asked why my son wasn't at pickup.

"You didn't fill out the form correctly," exclaimed a smartly dressed, grey haired woman named "Ruth" who I'm sure was once a Catholic nun.

"What do I need to do?" I asked.

Ruth got up from her desk and made her way to the counter. The expression on her face made it clear she was unhappy. She plunked down the "Student Pickup Form," then she just glared at me. I thought she was waiting for me to put my hand on the counter so she could rap my knuckles with a metal ruler. After an unusually long time, she said,

"You didn't sign it."

On the bottom of the form was a line labeled "Name" so I printed my name. If they wanted me to sign, they should have labeled the field "Signature." I thought of telling Ruth that I didn't know how to write in cursive, but I figured she would take one look at my salt and pepper hair and know I wasn't being truthful. Besides William's swim lesson was fast approaching, and I needed to move this along. I scribbled my name on the line as illegibly as I could. Ruth snatched the form then told me to wait for William in the gym. A teacher's aide escorted Willy to me, and we dashed off to the local YMCA.

The following Monday he was in the gym ready to go. The system was working smoothly until William's swim instructor needed to push up his lesson by a half an hour. Now I had to go back to the office and find out what I had to do to get William out fifteen minutes early to make his new swim lesson. Ruth told me,

"We don't like students missing school for outside activities. You'll have to get approval from the principal."

Now it's important to note that William was in kindergarten. He was learning to count and read which are very important skills to master. He also did a lot of coloring which William is moderately good at. As much as I want him to stay within the lines, I think it's far more important for him to learn how not to drown.

I sent an email as directed stating that William needed to get out fifteen minutes before Student Pick Up to make his swim lesson. The principal never responded so after a few days, I went back into the office and tried again. Ruth told me that I would have to fill out a special form each week called the "Early Dismissal Form," and I had to get him a half hour early because fifteen minutes was not allowed. I'm sure it was not possible like certain quantum energy states. I was just glad that she didn't make me say three "Our Fathers" and one "Hail Mary." She gave me the new form. I inadvertently added William's bus number on Monday again. When she saw this, she circled it and said,

"Wrong again!"

Now Ruth could have crossed off the bus number herself, but she insisted I make all the changes, however small. So I crossed off the "22" then noticed that I forgot to fill out the line for "Reason." I wrote,

"Need help on the farm."

She took the form and off I went. Before I left I grabbed a stack of Early Dismissal Forms because I needed to fill one out every week now. The next week, I put for "Reason,"

"His turn in the mine."

The following week,

"Need Willy to change the bobbins."

Then,

"Sweep the chimney. He's small enough to fit."

And that was the one that did it. I got an email back from a school official which expressed their dissatisfaction with my "appalling attitude towards school correspondence." Luckily William's swim instructor asked if she could move back William's lesson to the original time. I hoped the earlier Student Pick Up Form was still on file and would be applicable.


 Owl Moon

Recently I went in to William's school to read the book, Owl Moon by Jane Yolen, to his class. I read the book to his older brother's kindergarten class eight years earlier. That story is much about fatherhood as it is about appreciating wildlife. I wish I could tell you my father and I trekked in deep snow at night just to spot an owl, but that wasn't the case. He wasn't the adventurous type and never seemed to have time for that kind of thing. William escorted me to the office to return my visitor's badge. Before I left I said to William,

"I'll see you at pick up."

"Oh no you won't!" Ruth exclaimed.

"Why not? It's Monday."

She slapped down my original Student Pick Up Form.

"You have to fill out a new form, and it's too late for today. It had to be in by ten o'clock."

Instead of arguing that the new form would have the same info as what was already on the original form, I said, "That's fine."

"I guess he'll just have to miss his swim lesson," Ruth reasoned.

"I guess so."

Luckily a young woman popped out of an office and came to the counter. She spun the form around.

"I'll take care of this for you Mr. Languedoc," she said with a pleasant smile. I thanked her as Ruth frowned.

Most parents lose sleep over safety concerns for their children. A child is far more likely to drown than to be abducted. I went to kindergarten at a local YMCA. My mother had a fear of water so each week she ensured that I forgot my swimsuit. The trepidation she instilled in me gave way to embarrassment as a teenager. At pool parties, I was always concerned that someone would toss me in the water. At the beach, I was keenly aware of the tidal condition after one time being swept out and rescued by a fellow swimmer.

William is back in his swim lesson, and he's a phenomenal swimmer. The other day he got up in the middle of the night to tell me that he heard an owl. He had his little flashlight in his hand.

"You want to go outside and see if we can find the owl?" I asked.

He looked out the dark window then to his diminutive light.

"No, I'm scared."

"Hop up," I said as he climbed into bed, buried himself under the covers then fell fast asleep.

Maybe next year.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 17, 2017.

The Birth of William

 

I'm sitting in a room watching a monitor with a rolling green graph. A large wave periodically moves down the horizontal axis.

"Ok," I tell my wife, Christine.

She grimaces in anticipation.

"This really hurts," she says pragmatically.

The second baby is far less scary, but Christine assures me it's just as painful. I tell her that's because of that apple fiasco in the garden. She laughs, but only briefly as another wave makes it's way down the axis. I wonder what the units are on the graph. The horizontal axis is clearly time. The vertical is probably "misery."

When our first was born I was scared, tired and relieved in that order. Christine was the usual shambles a woman is after giving birth. She had a bunch of people tending to her. As they wheeled Baby #1 out of the birthing room, a nurse said,

"Hey dumb ass. You go with him."

My loyalty was still with my wife. I had to be told to follow the new addition. I don't think she really said, "dumb ass," but that's what I heard. The nurse person in her goofy, mismatched clothes brought the two of us to a quiet, dimly lit room with a rocking chair. I held Baby #1, minutes old, and told him about his room, our John Deere tractor, the horses that graze around the fields in front of our house. I even told him his name, "Aidan." He opened his eyes and stared at length into mine. I was sure he was putting a face to the muffled voice he heard over the past months.

I'm in the delivery room with Christine who clearly would like to get this over with. Baby #2 is moments away. A few weeks early which raised some concern, Baby #2 is big so he must be ready otherwise he would've stayed put. That makes sense. I'm prepping for my repeat performance. This time I know the drill. I'm experienced. I see him for the first time. He looks identical to the first. It all unfolds on script even though we were off schedule.

They measure and weigh him and assess his Apgar score then everything abruptly changes. There's a distinct distress when a newborn is struggling to breath that reflects in the Apgar and scrambles the medical professionals. Baby #2 is swaddled, briefly shown to Christine, who is told he needs to be transferred to the "Neonatal Intensive Care Unit." NICU for short. I inform the nurse making all the decisions that I am going with him. She's surprised then hesitant. I insist.

I'm on my way to the NICU when in the hospital hallway I suddenly feel very cold. I wasn't going to sit in a chair and rock Baby #2 in a dimly lit space. I wasn't going to tell him the color of his room or about his brother. As I watched him convulse with tiny gasps of air, I thought that he doesn't know his name. The nurse uses her badge to get us into the NICU.

A swarm of medical personnel surround Baby #2, hooking him up to monitors, an IV, tubes in his nose to help him breath. I'm standing up against the wall, out of the way. A nurse shows me a new screen for me to stare at. She points to a number, telling me what it represents, pulse oxygen which is too low. I'm transfixed on the display as the number rises and falls.

How could this happen? He was four weeks early but seven pounds, eight ounces, bigger than the first. Not your idea of a preemie. We were at my best friend's house for dinner which was luckily near the hospital. Christine felt something coming on so she wisely chose not to eat. Woman have instincts especially when it comes to life. Men, we're all about basic things like mowing the grass and keeping the furnace running. Women ensure the species flourishes while men ensure the lawn looks good. Back in the NICU, I convince a nurse to let me hold him.

"Look, I watch a lot of Lifetime. I know he knows my voice. If I put my hands on him, his stats will all go up," I say authoritatively.

She is reluctant to let me get my man mitts in there but eventually agrees. After scrubbing my hands, I surround Baby #2 then check the monitors. Surely all his vitals will soar. Nothing happens.

"He's struggling to breath," the young medical professional says.

"What about the power of touch?"

"Look dumb ass. You should go check on your wife."

That's a good idea. By now it's late into the night, and most of the hospital is dark and quiet. I'm making my way through the dimly lit hallways as the lights pop on. I'm following in reverse the yellow line path I noticed earlier to get back to Christine. She had jettisoned her contact lenses before delivery so she couldn't see past the end of her bed, but when I finally find her, she somehow knows it's me.

"He's doing fine," I say.

"Don't lie to me Robert!"

I should've known she'd have an instinct for that too.

"He's having trouble breathing."

It's comforting to be with her. In Baby #2's room I was helpless, in the way. At least here I could hold her hand and reassure her. After a while I went back to the NICU. I'm walking the long walk down the dark hallways which are eerily quiet. I'm buzzed into the NICU. As I near Baby #2's space, a nurse intercepts me.

"We're taking blood, and your presence upsets the nurses so wait here."

I dutifully wait for the blood draw to be over. Now I'm pretty sure I look like an unshaven zombie, and the medical staff just wants me to find a place to sleep it off so they can do their job. I sit in a comfortable chair, but I can't sleep. The nurse returns,

"There's no change."

"I want to see him."

She escorts me to Baby #2. He's laying on his back with tubes and wires emanating from his body. I sit at the edge of a chair and watch the pulse ox wave up and down. On the way up, I'm elated. Down, I worry. I want to rid him of the tiny convulsions, but this was something that I could not do. An hour passed before I make my way back to Christine.

"Still no change."

The crushing weight of my words is evident on her face. She's attempting to express milk so that her baby will have something to eat. There is nothing more comforting than seeing a baby taking his mother's milk. I know some people are squeamish about breastfeeding in public, but you have to understand that's what those things are made for, and if that bothers you, get a warm glass of bovine milk and a fig newton, sit in the corner and shut your garbage chute.

Christine is tired and falls asleep. I'm talking to her quietly as she rests. I whisper to her that he will be fine and will be ready for her when she wakes. He will give his mother a big hug, and ask her what his name is. After sometime, I returned to the NICU. I don't pay attention to the yellow line on the floor and get lost in the dark hospital. Alone and tired, I wander about looking for a sign or the yellow path. Eventually I regain my bearings and am buzzed into the NICU. I'm met by the the nurse who brought him here from the delivery room. She's smiling as she ushers me to Baby #2.

"Look!" she says

He is sleeping on his side, breathing normally. They backed down on the oxygen as his lungs cleared. He's calm and content. I sit next to him and just watch his tiny chest move rhythmically up then down. I check the monitor. His pulse ox is nearly normal. My senses are heightened to everything around me. Although tired, I can't sleep until I know this state is permanent. A long time passes before I have the sense to return to Christine.

I'm entering her room. Christine is awake and being attended to by a nurse. I'm smiling broadly.

"He's sleeping comfortably."

"Really!" she exclaims.

"Yes."

"I want to go see him, but there's no one who can push a wheelchair on duty this early."

"There's one in the hallway. I'll go get it."

"You can't do that, dumb ass. You're not qualified to push a wheelchair," the nurse says.

"I'm going now," Christine declares. 


Aidan Meets his Brother

Now Christine delivered Baby #2 by an unscheduled Cesarean section five hours earlier. She said her insides felt like they would spill over if she wasn't careful. That doesn't stop her. She flips the covers from her legs then swings her feet carefully off the bed. She looks to me.

"You coming?"

I nod hesitatingly.

"Well get over here and help me."

Truth is, I'm waiting for the nurse person in her silly, conflicting flower pattern outfit to tell her to get back into bed, but no one stops a mother on a mission to feed her baby. I help her to her feet, and Christine begins shuffling along. We follow the yellow line to the NICU and are buzzed in. We pass several abandoned wheelchairs which I'm incapable of properly operating so my wife, who had recently birthed another human being, walks instead. I'm sure the hospital's insurance company, the authors of this bureaucratic nonsense, is unaware that any of this is taking place.

The medical professionals in the NICU treat an appearance by a birthmother like a sacred event. There's none of this "hang ten while we finish our sharp needle procedure." A nurse guides Christine to her child. She sees him for the second time. All the tubes and wires are upsetting. I immediately start my TEDx explanation of the data monitor, and how he is actually doing way better.

"Look, his pulse ox is spot on," I note.


Christine and William

Christine sits down, unable to hold him as the sun outside the window lifts into a new day. I need to take Aidan to school. We left him at our friend's house when Christine went into labor. After picking Aidan up and filling everyone in, I spirit him to school only to repeat the story, then I make my way back to the hospital. When I arrive at the NICU, Christine is feeding him.

"He knew just what to do," she says.

I'm relieved. That was the toughest five hours of my life. I don't know how parents soldier through extended stays in the NICU. It was exhausting.

"They're talking like he'll be out of here tomorrow," Christine continues.

When he finishes, I ask,

"Can I hold him?"

Christine hands off the awkward mess of tubes, wires and baby. My arms surround him, them I softly say.

"Hey little boy. We have a room all ready for you. It's green. We have lots of trains. You have a big brother. I think you'll like living with us."

Christine smiles.

"Oh, yeah, one other thing. Your name is William."

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 16, 2017, one day after William's sixth birthday and three quarters through the year of the blog.

On Mother's Day

Christine, William
and Aidan

She never mentioned children. Not when we were dating. Not after we were married. She liked to travel. One year we embarked on a pilgrimage to the Vatican for Christmas. We had gone to Paris a couple of times. We rode horses in Hyde Park in London. A local guide told us what to do if we run into the Queen on horseback. Initially you refer to her as "Your Majesty." Afterwards you can call her "Mum." On our honeymoon we spent weeks wandering the Ring of Kerry in Ireland on large warm blood horses. She knew about babies having sat for three boys, one a newborn, everyday one summer for two dollars an hour when she was eleven.

"The baby used to cry when I left him with his mother," she recalled.

Someone invited their family to our wedding. The father took a picture of us with the now three grown men then announced,

"Ok, now one with just Christine."

Imagine that. Some jerk was at a wedding trying to shoo the groom away from his bride. Well, what do you expect from people who let their newborn bond with a babysitter.

One time a friend handed Christine her infant son. She returned him a short time later, whispering to me,

"He smelled like sour milk."

I was a godparent so I had a connection to my best friend's middle child. I liked kids. They laughed a lot and played fun games. My wife always seemed less interested in the world of kids. Admittedly, it wasn't a big concern for me. We never had a giant conversation about "how we feel about children." We were the adults who grew annoyed by your misbehaving brats running around the restaurant. When we went out to dinner, Christine would survey the space to ensure we were seated furthest from a table with any children. Maybe I'm more tolerant now, but it seems that years ago parents let their little special snowflakes run between tables in restaurants after they scoffed down their chicken nuggets. Once a kid in a local pizzeria was scurrying about with a laser pointer in his hand which he shined in patron's faces. We left before our food arrived. We bought a house in a rural town and fixed it up all while educating ourselves into expert do it yourselfers. One day Christine said,

"Now that we have a house with all these rooms we should fill them up with, you know, people."

"You mean babies?" I asked.

"Yeah, what did you think?"

From the sound of it I thought she wanted us to open up our house to the homeless. That was the first time she had ever mentioned children, albeit obscurely. A routine visit to the gynecologist revealed a medical condition that would make it difficult for her to conceive. Her doctor told her,

"You won't be able to have children without medical intervention."

When she told me it was one of the two times in my life I saw my wife cry. When I came home from work, she met me at the door to tell me that the gnocchi I liked so much was sold out at our local pasta shop.

"I went all the way up there, and they didn't have any gnocchi," she explained in between sobs.

"What's the matter Christine?" I asked.

"They were all out! Now, we'll never have any gnocchi."

Eventually she told me what her doctor said.

"Can I have a turn at bat?" I asked.

Before we were going to cash in our secret desires to start a family, I wanted to at least try to impregnate my wife. We had friends who had difficulties conceiving. I read that some women are fertile for as little as two hours a month. Conception is a numbers game. The more you do it, the more likely you are to get pregnant. I believed in the "Three and Thirty Rule" for procreation, that is, three times a day for thirty days. After the best month of my life, Christine was pregnant. Her Yale doctor remarked,

"What do we know?"

Christine was a happy pregnant woman. Pregnancy ramps up the human body to help ensure the survival of the species. The first birth went off without a hitch. Six weeks later to correct that medical condition, they wanted to take one of Christine's ovaries. That's the state of medical expertise in our society. When a body part is malfunctioning or annoying you then have it nixed. They used to perform hysterectomies on women after menopause when their childbearing years were behind them to prevent "hysteria," then they discovered that there is a correlation between removing a woman's uterus and breast cancer. So not only do women get to grow a mustache after a hysterectomy, they get the big C too. Today tonsils and adenoids are all left in place as if nature or God screwed up and gave us all a body part that needs to be extracted by a surgeon at some time in our life. Not to sound like a Madonna, Christine said,

"I'm telling my doctor I'm keeping my ovary."

Her doctor objected by emphatically stating,"You have another."

"I have two of a lot of things, but that doesn't mean I should give one up," she reasoned.

She was adamant that her doctor leave her ovary in place, and he obliged by performing a delicate surgery. He was quite proud of himself. Normally surgeons dive in with a dirty dull civil war amputation saw and hack off two fingers of their assistant. This dude did a nice job saving Christine's ovary. A few years later time would be against us. Having children later in life is a risky business. Many women lose babies and that absorbs a lot of time that older parents just don't have. We both wanted another child. Neither of us thought it was possible so we adopted a not so regimented rhythm method.

"If God wants us to have another baby, then it will just happen," Christine rationalized.

"Well what's he waiting for? We're doing our part," I said.

Eight years after the first Christine was pregnant again against the odds at 45. She became the poster mom for women trying to have babies later in life. I am certain that life cannot be contained. It breaks free, it pushes boundaries, expands into new territories, painfully maybe even dangerously. Life finds a way. There it is.

William was born which made our population neutral family complete. A consummate mother I've seen my wife cook meals while helping with algebra. She assessed skinned knees while making brownies. She was her father's favorite. An accident herself, welcomed by a former stern navy man who did anything for his little girl. She was his princess even though she was a tomboy. She assisted her father with electrical jobs around the house. He helped her with a science project to make a digital cooking thermometer. She grew to be a very responsible and independent child who maintained the family pool by the time she was eight years old. Her father was a strong and positive influence in her life. The only other time I saw her cry was when her dad passed away after a long illness.

I was attracted to her because of her beauty and intelligence. She was a mechanical engineer who took classes in tribology, that is bearing design. She has a college textbook, entitled Principles of Tribology by J. Halling. I wrote in the inside cover a note that appeared to come from the author,

"Christine,

Good luck with your study of bearings. I hope you find tribology as rewarding a career as I have.

All my best,

   J. Halling"

Apparently, she discovered my lame gag some years ago so she wrote in my computer science text, Object-Oriented Software Construction by Bertrand Meyer.

"Robert,

I hope you discover someday that tribology is a far more intellectual pursuit than computer science.

All my best,

  Bertrand Meyer"

Christine helps me with projects around the house. I've learned to listen to her every word. She is an expert at uncovering mistakes in progress. When she says,

"I have a question."

I know to ring up "All Stop" and listen because she often points out something I'm doing wrong. She has three boys in her life that gang up on her when we play "I Spy." One day Christine found some hospital paperwork for when William was born. She said,

"You know, Willy came down my right ovary."

She pointed to a line of data on the paper.

"Yeah," I said unknowingly.

"That's the ovary they wanted to take."

To think that the our second child would never be the boy we know now if her doctor had trashed her ovary years earlier. William managed to make his way down some busted up piping, and she carried him to the very beginning.

Women often take the lead when it comes to procreation. If they left it up to men, we would be happy muddling along while we occasionally cut the lawn and work on our "projects" in the shed with a case of Budweiser stubbies as we hum Escape, (the Pina Colada song). I for one will never finish that bird house, but somehow I was involved in producing two other human beings. I really think I was just a willing accomplice. I grew up in a time when parents were not all that involved. I could've just as well been the same kind of parent I had. In fact the odds were in favor of it. Although it might be common to climb your way out of a hole, you need someone special in your life to rise above it. While Christine is not my mother, one thing is for certain.

As a father, she made me.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 16, 2017.

Stoic Guy Versus Funny Guy

There are two types of guys, stoic and funny, quiet and talkative. In our society, those who speak the least are often regarded as the smartest. Who becomes the village elder? The quiet guy who doles out tidbits of wisdom for the rest of us to follow. The funny guy becomes the village idiot, the court jester, the fool. Women don't like funny guys. They want the strong silent type. The guy who nods his head while someone speaks as if he's absorbing everything that unfolds, dissecting it, then rendering a wise decision.

You see stoic guys on dates in restaurants all the time. They just sit there with a girl, no one saying a thing. No one laughs or smiles. When their food arrives, stoic guy scoffs down his chow while never coming up to make a comment. Not even,

"Soup is good."
 

Stoic Guy

Like a dog when fed, stoic guy keeps his head down when eating. That's because stoic guy is so super smart that he hasn't time to articulate the many complex thoughts circulating in his head. I was never a stoic guy, but I always wanted to be. I was the funny guy who entertained women on dates. They laughed. They cried. They looked about for a stoic guy who they could go out with next. For, you see, women do not marry the funny guy. They marry the mature man who knows to stay quiet, the mystery man whose depths are discovered like hidden treasure. The fact is comedians in our culture don't get laid. Just ask Carrot Top.

Women, I'm going to let you in on a secret. Stoic guy is not a genius. Stoic guy is a dope. The reason why stoic guy isn't talking to you at dinner is because nothing is going on in his head. You think he's brilliant because he's silent, but the truth is the average stoic guy is thinking about inconsequential things like whether Gumby ever actually rode Pokey or whether they remembered to clear the porn history from their cell phone. Stoic guy doesn't speak because he has nothing to say. 

Funny Guy

Woman are making an evolutionary mistake by procreating with stoic guy. Stoic guy is intellectually inferior to funny guy. It's a fact. One of the chief traits of gifted children is their desire and ability to make others laugh. Middle school students are often very quiet and shy because no one knows how to hone in on something embarrassing faster than a group of middle schoolers. Funny guy usually has a better go of middle school because he can defend himself. Stoic guy is forced to develop thick skin to survive while funny guy develops a sharp tongue to do the same.

Unfortunately, stoic guy usually wins in the end. Stoic guy becomes the project manager. Woman love stoic guy because they see him as deep, gentlemanly, mature, but they're wrong. Stoic guy is not firing on just one cylinder. Stoic guy has only one cylinder. He doesn't care about current events, he doesn't have an opinion nor does he vote. You don't want to marry stoic guy because you'll have stoic kids who will be brutalized in middle school. Everyone knows that project managers are the people who can't actually do any real work.

 

Mark Twain said,

"It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt."

Twain was wrong. It doesn't happen that way. The quiet guy is never thought of as a fool even thought he most certainly is. Twain might have had a better grasp of reality if he was more like his sister, Shania.

So there you have it. Go for humor because it's the stoic guy who thinks himself to be wise, but the funny man knows himself to be the fool.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 25, 2017.