Let me indulge in a little role-playing here. I’m Fred McMurray (aka Steve Douglas). I have three sons—Mike, Robbie, and Chip. They’re a handful.
Last spring I had to go to the East Coast on business and Uncle Charlie had to do some community service, so Mike was left in charge of the house and his brothers. He turned the place into a casino with Robbie as a blackjack dealer and Chip as a croupier. The police got wind of the operation, busted it, and I had to suspend the boys’ allowances to settle all the claims and fines.
Then one summer night Robbie took the VW microbus out with a bunch of friends and due to his recklessness rolled it on the Coast Highway, sending two of his pals to emergency, one into a year-long rehab, and our insurance premiums through the roof. As a dutiful dad with Hollywood writers and directors available to show me how to handle these things, I took Robbie’s driving privileges away for a year.
And in the fall Chip, the little devil, was supposed be starting roller-skating classes after school. Come to find out, he was skipping the classes and using the money I gave him for his lessons to buy airplane glue. As soon as I found out about it, I had Uncle Charley take down the boy’s pants and put the belt to his bottom. Spare the rod and you spoil the child, I say.
And now a year has come and gone. Mike said he was sorry about the casino thing and that he had learned his lesson. Robbie said he was a new man since the car crash and asked for a second chance. And Chip begged to go back to roller skating class because he knew how important it was to me. So I gave Mike the keys to the house and I gave Robbie the keys to the car and I gave Chip back the key to his skates. And before you know it, Mike was running a craps game down in the basement, Robbie rolled the new bus and killed his girlfriend, and Chip was sniffing glue again.
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