Scott, Nikki and Jordan watch as a rabid foam cow visciously accosts my helpless child, who can only perform yogic prostrations in the hope that he may realize enlightenment and be spared by transcendental flight before the deadly bovine is upon him. I take the picture. It may help to know that my child was nicknamed Tank, in utero, because everyone (and by everyone I mean Nikki) thought that he would be monstrous. I should probably have been offended. Especially since he was born at a modest 7 pounds, -1 ounce. That's 6, 15 for you non-rounders. Soon, my child was forming O's, in what one must assume was an attempt to utter "Ohm" since he was also given to sitting cross-legged and bouncing, obviously an attempt to fly.