We discussed this and I said no.
“Smithers, this plague doesn’t scare me. I’ve constructed a germ-free chamber for myself. Not a single microbe can get in or out…. Who the devil are you?”
*Don’t panic. Just come up with a good story.*
“My name is Mr. Burns.”
“And a bottle of aspirin, please.”
“The aspirin is $24.95.”
“I lowered the price because an escaped mental patient tampered with the bottle.”
According to Fretful Mother Magazine, if Maggie doesn’t talk by age one we should consider a corrective tongue extender.
Just squeeze your rage into a bitter little ball and release it at an appropriate time. Like that day I hit the referee with a whiskey bottle. Remember that? When daddy hit the referee?