Finally, my pricey, ivy-league education is starting to pay some serious dividends. Surprisingly, these payouts are happening in the realm of parenting.

Encouraged by his mother, Coop had just finished emptying the contents of his stomach on the kitchen floor. He looked up at me, apparently uncertain about the protocol.

“Can I go watch TV?” he asked.

“Boot and Rally, dude, ” I replied. He trotted off, and I went back to the telemarketer who had enough mad skillz to call at the precise moment that Coop presented himself and announced his “tummy hurt.”

I ask you, if a telemarketer calls at the exact moment your kid starts to bounce dinner off the kitchen tiles you should:

A) Extend the phone toward the child so the asshole can catch the full audio
B) Hang up and rush to the child’s aid
C) Pop for a timeshare in Naples just so you are excused from sopping up half-digested watermelon

I extracted my revenge by giving a detailed narration, “Ooh, pretty colors. He really should chew his food better.” Then I hung up.

Having the opportunity to impart the timeless wisdom of “boot and rally” was deeply satisfying to me. This throwing up is transitory, ephemeral, whether caused by a virus or a dozen or so Meister Braus in the Psi U basement. Not something to make a big deal of. Boot and rally, grasshopper, boot and rally.