-dedicated to fans of Firesign Theater everywhere.

Like most mental defectives, kids say the darnedest things, and I’ve always half suspected an understandable need for revenge to be the reason my parents waited until I’d introduced them to that special fella I wanted to impress, to dredge up the most embarrassing moments from my childhood under the guise of cute and colorful anecdotes.

The following is one of their favorites; it is also one of the top 100 reasons I don’t want children of my own.   

I was born and raised in Memphis, TN; Memphis designated the spot where it helped carve a new life out of the American Indian, as a village preservation and laminating hut called Chucalissa. According to the brochure:

“Chucalissa serves as a gateway into understanding the science of archaeology and the interpretation of Native American history. Our museum exhibits interpret the prehistory of the Mid-South, and contemporary Southeastern Indian cultures.”

When I was 5, my parents took me to the stinking mound otherwise known as Chucalissa, or to what was left after our ancestors plundered it. And being the thoroughly modern, capitalistic, consumer-oriented toddler I was, I bypassed the "exhibit" (that stinkin' mound I told ya about ) and beelined my way to the gift shop, where me and them bees proceeded to swarm in on the largest, tackiest "headdress" we could find.

My parents, bless their little indulgent hearts, paid good money for that tacky feathered chapeau, and I wore that frigging headdress home from Stinking Mound there, and wouldn't take it off, not for them bees or anyone. And most likely due to some dopamine deficit, one morning I decided to awaken my parents, enrobed in my favorite pink blanket and sporting the now ever-present headdress, to show off a new piece of Native American-speak I'd figured out all on my own.

I nobly shuffled into their bedroom around 6 a.m. on what I’m guessing was a Saturday, and stood at the foot of the bed, the tacky-as-all-get-out headdress in place.

I silently rehearsed my line and waited for my cue.

Once I saw they were sufficiently roused to appreciate my efforts, with great dignity, I solemnly intoned,

"Me Chief Stroganoff..”

My personal memory of that morning is vague, but if indeed it happened as it has so often been related by my parents to prospective "suitors", why I was not at once tested for heavy-metals toxicity, I do not know.

Kids may say the darnedest things, but someone else’s kid will have to be the one picking up the slack; life is hard enough without enduring months of weight gain, mood swings and morning sickness only to be awakened at some ungodly hour by such a half-wit witticism as “Chief Stroganoff”… 

Sheesh…