For Me To POOP On

Conan O'Brien, I dreamt I was talking to you last night. About how you got started and your wife and what a raw deal NBC is giving you. May you find another space on TV, maybe at FOX, the young people's network, where Triumph and the Year 3 thousaaaaaaaaand can flourish. I used to have the same dreams about Britney Spears, when everyone was on Britney Death Watch. I would talk to her and give her advice and reason with her about her options. What Freudian interpretations could be assigned to me, I don't know. Maybe I want to be a Dear Vicky advice columnist. Can you even imagine. WWVD. There'd have to be a lot of disclaimers to make that work. 

In the meantime, here's a Daddy-Daughter moment. Emmy giving her pops a peek down. "What are those mysterious hairs on that white porcelain surface? They appear to be growing out of the milky skin-like material under your shirt, Father." Followed by: squinchy face, eyes well up, and... chillaxation. The kids have been safely released into the pool. Another successful day at our family compound.

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