Father Most Definitely Doesn't Know Best.

When I tucked Beavis and Butthead into bed around 9, after 10 minutes of brushing teeth, flossing, peeing, and saying prayers, I figured I was safe.

After all, Ang had taken the Axis of Evil to the pool this afternoon, which normally results in a coma-induced sleep that lasts to the extremely late hour of 6 a.m. So I headed downstairs, plopped myself in front of Marilyn, the newest 50" woman in my life, and proceeded to watch the "Deadliest Catch" I missed from Tuesday.

Ciera, in a way only an almost 13 year old teenager can do, woke me from by silent bliss by giggling uncontrollably about 45 minutes later and informed me Trot was in Rakes' room playing video games and laughing like those 2 morons from "Dumb and Dumber".

Taking 3 stairs at the time I burst into Rakes' room, whereupon I found Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb playing dead under the covers while the PSP blared "Call of Duty" and smoke came out of my ears. I've taken both game thingamajimmies away for the foreseeable future, threatened violence, and swore I'd take them to the pool the next time Haley's Comet came around.

But I know it's a losing battle. How in God's name am I gonna deal with a beautiful daughter I prayed would turn out ugly hitting puberty while trying to keep two concrete-headed boys from burning down the mission, or at the very least the back yard while trying to keep a wife getting her Master's Degree from going crazy while I do my very best to just tread freaking water and hope I make it out alive on the other side?

Throw in the fact the Sox lost to the Royals 4.3 while 2/3rds of the Three Amigos were in attendance and I find myself in quite the conundrum.

Screw it; after tomorrow I'm looking at 3 days off with a beach vacation and a trip to Boston all in the next 6 1/2 weeks.

Let Rome burn.

I'll figure it out later.