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He hopped in the car. In my raspy bronchitis-y dying bird squawk, I said hello and asked him how his day went. He just continued grinning at me.
A few seconds later he thrust the object of his mirth between the front seats. Because I share a sense of humor fitting of an 8 year old boy, i also collapsed into hysterical raspy laryngitis-y guffaws.
Here it is:
How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Poop? The world may never WANT TO know.
