Kwan here.
San Jose in the summertime is not where I wanted to be...ever. The traffic behind Santana Row is ridiculous.
Irv, you have to be the father. Your Uncle Vick wasn't much in bed. Okay, he was nothing in bed. He would snort and growl and bounce up and down, and he'd whistle, and use his hands and he'd sweat too much and sometimes pass out, but he did nothing...I repeat...NOTHING...that could make him the father of this baby!
It could only be you, Irv. Those doctors were wrong about you and that thresher accident.
My mother tried to levitate herself yesterday after the ABC news with that handsome David Muir. She was trying to see into the future. She ate three zucchini squash and smoked a cigarette bigger than a hot dog, but she never left the floor. I love her and her quaint old ways. But of course, she's an idiot.
God, I wish this baby would come. It's due any day.
Kwan
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