My son has learned to read. It is, at times, hilarious. Here's a verbatim transcript from last Friday night as we cruised along the freeway in our kick-ass mini-van of love...

THE BOY: (LOOKING AT RESTAURANT SIGNS) What's that word say?

MY WIFE: Sound it out.

THE BOY: Hoooo... Ters. HOOTERS! THAT'S A FUNNY WORD! WHAT IS HOOTERS?!

MY WIFE: Ask your father.

THE BOY: DAD? WHAT IS HOOTERS?

ME: (SADLY NOT GIVING THE ANSWERS I'D LIKE TO) It's a restaurant.

Long beat.

THE BOY: What are Hooters full of?

ME: Food.

THE BOY: Why is it called Hooters?

ME: Well... because it was invented by Alfred J. Hooter.

THE BOY: BUT WHAT ARE HOOTERS?!

ME: Owls. You know, hoot-hoot?

THE BOY: Dad, what color are hooters?

ME: Sweetie?! Let's not talk about hooters anymore.

"Let's not talk about hooters anymore." Not that my Friday nights were ever super crazy in the past, but I know they never contained that phrase.