Last night at dinner, Mr. G and I eat rotisserie chicken while Mr. T and Mr. D sleep in drug-abetted slumber and Mr. B watches TV:
Mr. G: (brandishing chicken leg) Did Daddy shoot this chicken?
Mr. G: Who shot the chicken?
Me: I don't know. It wasn't Daddy.
Mr. G: I bet the lion killed it.
Mr. G: The good lion killed it or the bad lion?
Me: The good lion.
Mr. G: Yeah. The good lion killed this chicken. I like chicken.
Mr. G: Where's the chicken's head?
Mr. G: Where's the chicken's head? You said this was his leg. Where's his head?
Me: Oh, um, we don't have the head.
Mr. G: Because the lion ate it. The good lion.