“Gampa, look! I gotta bawooon.”

“Where did you get that balloon, Baby Levon?”

“Nice man in Wed Sox hat.”


“No, you can’t make me. Gonna run over here.”

“No, Baby Levon! Stay away from the–”


“–bullwhip lessons!”

“I okay, Gampa!”

“We should stop scheduling those during the show.”

“I go pet doggy now.”

“No! That’s–”


“–a hyena! Who the fuck brought a hyena?”

“I think it’s a service hyena, Dad.”

“Grahame, if I want any crap out of you, I’ll squeeze your head.”


“Gampa, look! The silver moves!”

“Is that a box full of old broken thermometers? Why would you even own that, let along leave it around children?”

“That’s mine, Dad. It’s a collector’s item.”

“Grahame, I swear to God.”

“Gampa, I got fwamethrower!”


“I okay!”

“HEY! Jackass!”

“You! The one who ‘writes’ all this bullshit. Hey!”


“Yes, you. Could you stop treating my grandson like a Loony Toon?”

I could.

“Try your hardest, fucknuts.”

I’ll try.

“You told him, Dad.”

“Grahame, get off the stage. Give me your guitar and your beard and get off the stage.”

“But, Dad–”

“NOW, Mister!”