There's a new sherrif in town...

We were at the house of a family this weekend with which we are very close friends, as are our children, who are about the same age. We were having a great time, the adults inside kabitzing, making dinner, oogling over the baby, when the inevitable happened. You know.

One of the kids came in crying with the extra sound of injustice in his voice. Our friend's son, we'll call him Thomas, claimed that his sister, we'll call her Sandra, and my oldest son, here known as Fric, hit him and knocked him to the ground. Oh, boy, here we go.

Thomas' dad, mom and I summoned all the appropriate witnesses to the bailiff's quarters (the porch) and commenced the interrogations in the judge's chambers.

One by one the involved parties were questioned, with Thomas' story distinctly different from Sandra's and Fric's, neither of whom had a moment together to corroborate their stories. To get to the point, Thomas started by hitting Sandra with (I believe) a wiffle ball bat when she retreived the frisbee before he did. And what did my son do? Why, he knocked Thomas over by hitting him in the chest, because, hey!, you don't. hit. girls.

That's my boy.