Yesterday I stopped at Walgreen’s on my way to the gym. I saw a twenty second vignette that brought back memories of growing up, and gave me new appreciation for the fact that my parents didn’t let me self-destruct as a toddler, try as I might.

A granny was watching a toddler, maybe 18 months old, as she happily pushed her own little stroller slowly down the sidewalk. Then, in true kid fashion, she suddenly veered to the left and plunged headlong into the parking lot, shrieking with kamikaze mania. Luckily it was early enough in the morning that I was the only one driving in the lot, and I know enough about bird brained kids to know to stay far away. The granny caught up with the baby, grabbed her securely, and said a few intense words that had little to no effect on the kid, who was just angry at being interrupted.

The granny turned to the stroller, unbuckling the seat belt so she could strap the little retard down before she got herself killed. But by the time she turned back to reach for her . . . the kid had dropped trou and was peeing right in the street.

I’ve always believed this instinctively, but here was hard proof of Bill Cosby’s theorem: Children are brain damaged. A postulate I’ll add to this theorem is that a child’s chance of survival is the function f(x) = 2x – s, where X = cuteness factor and s = suicide factor. A parent has to work very, very hard to keep a kid under 5 from killing themselves, and it can be really exasperating to deal with. If kids weren’t cute, parents would just cut their losses and barbecue their offspring so they can say they at least got something out of the experience.

So Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there. Congratulations for overcoming your strong (and justifiable) urge to kill your offspring. I hope the tie you received is sufficient reward.