My son shambles in, diagnosis decease his hand covering his brow.
“Dad, I hate to tell you this, but I’ve got a terrible case of pinkeye.”
“What??? Oh, no. C’mere, let me see.”
He turns and I see this fantastic Fuse-bead concoction clapped to his face.
It’s still warm, fresh from the iron.
I’m doubly thrilled – a) that he’s making a gift of it to me and b) that it’s not really fuckin’ pinkeye.
In seconds, we’re both cackling like idiots.
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