There are times when I just have to sit and catch my breath, freshly snatched from my bosom by the sheer genius I've just exhibited.
I am a college dropout, and that's a flattering way of describing my education. In reality, I dropped out in 8th grade. Mentally. I attended 4 more years, and received a diploma, but that's due to low standards and not high achievement.
So there's my daughter, wailing about how she is doomed to a life of dead end jobs and bad men because she can't figure out her advanced trigogeoalchemy for her finals, and her only lifelines are as ignorant as stumps when it comes to anything more advanced than square roots.
"Perhaps I can help," said Daddy in a manner suggesting that I've given Halliburton oil drilling advice in the past.
I might as well have asked her if she would consider rubbing fungus cream on my feet.
"YOU DON'T KNOW THIS!" she screamed. "HOW ARE YOU GOING TO HELP ME? GO AWAY!"
"Lar, just..." said my wife. That's code for "you're a moron who doesn't know shit and will only worsen the problem so transport yourself several hundred feet, if not miles, from this room."
Well, the odds were clearly against Wachs, I must say. If I had any hope of doing the things I enjoy doing upstairs in peace today, then I had to solve this problem fast.
I went upstairs to listen to "Holding Out For a Hero."
Came back down.
"Sometimes I go nuts like that when the checkbook won't balance."
The kid looked at me like I had just urinated on the floor.
"What ya gotta do is go back to the beginning of the problem and check the assumptions on all your functions or operations or whatever. Then you'll find the answer."
"YOU KNOW WHAT? JUST GO AWAY. THAT IS NOT HELPING ME AND I'VE GOT TO DO THIS!!!!!! GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!"
OK. Sounds good. Back up the steps.
Top of the steps and I hear:
"...ooooohhh. I'm such a tard. It was staring me in the face. Why'd I do that?"