Yeah...baby Megan's gonna' have it awful tough. Three days on the planet and she's already decked out in the finest fleece bib money can buy.
I must say, it's a far cry from my days as an infant, when times were tough and we Nitti's did whatever we could just to get by. The steel mill had just shut down, and my old man was hitting the bottle pretty hard. My mom, God bless her, did the best with what she had.
Every Sunday morning she would sneak out before dawn, swipe the neighbor's Trentonian, pull out the Sunday comics, and wrap me up with Scotch tape and twine. And I had to make those comics last the full seven days, or a beatin' was a comin'.
Do you have any idea what it does to a guy to spend his formative years swathed in Moose Miller cartoons? And Lauren wonders why I'm always skipping work, crashing the neighbors swimming pool uninvited, and using my well-trained parrot to steal gigantic drumsticks from Chester Crabtree's barbeque. It's all I know man; it's all I know.
