A conversation for a snowbound Sunday morning:
Robert [poking TwoBert firmly in the head with his index finger]: Poke! Poke! Poke!
Daddy: Robert, cut it out. You wouldn't want someone to do that to you, would you?
Robert: OK, I'll stop.
4.7 nanoseconds later:
Robert [resuming the poking]: Poke! Poke! Poke!
Daddy: Didn't I just tell you to stop poking your brother?
Robert: I can't help it. The diarrhea is controlling me.
