Run: 2026-09-01-01M1EM7HQFSP9PN2HJACK9DD72

Bill, have you considered that a children’s party is basically a maximum-security fortress disguised with pastel tablecloths? Only if the fortress is staffed by toddlers armed with juice boxes, Molly. I’m in. We need to neutralize the balloon arch. It’s the first line of defense, and it’s judging us. I’ll bring a needle, scissors, and an attitude that says I haven’t slept since Tuesday. The presents are under the tree. But there’s a six-year-old named Kevin who looks like he summons ancient demons with a juice box. Kevin has a death wish for anyone who touches his Lego Death Star. We leave the Lego. What’s the door code? It’s a balloon shaped like a tyrannosaurus rex. We pop it. Classic infiltration. What if they have a piñata? That’s just a decorative bomb. Then we become the bomb. We steal the gifts, blame the dog—there’s a dog, we invent the blame—and vanish in a cloud of glitter. Which dog? There is always a dog at these things. It’s part of the security protocol. Molly, this is deeply immoral. Bill, this is comedy. Give me the crowbar. I’d rather use a cupcake as a distraction device. Good. Cupcakes are code red. We go in at three, when they’re singing Happy Birthday to a child who turned eight and is now the king of the universe. We leave at three-fifteen with the presents and a new understanding of pain. Do we keep our dignity? No. We leave that with the clown, who is already suspicious. I think the clown is a cop. Then we steal his nose and run. Fine. But I’m taking the good presents, not the crayons. Crayons are currency, Bill. Only if they’re scented.