Daddy, You’re Fired

Today, while driving him home from Karate – eh hem -ninja classes, and ice cream, Tom fired me. What follows is what happens when an adult attempts to negotiate their position with a three-year old:

“Daddy, you’re fired?”
“Is this due to poor performance, or are these company-wide layoffs?”
“Puhformance.”
“What am I fired from, driving you around?”
“No, fighting bad guys.”
“Well I didn’t fight bad guys, so, I’d say management made the right decision. I most certainly haven’t been fulfilling my assigned duties.”
Vacant pause
“You’re not fired any more.”
“Oh, that’s good. How many hours a week do I have to work?”
“Dad, turn around.” Tom is holding up ten fingers.
“Ten hours a week?”
“Yes”
“Does this job have a salary?”
“Celery?”
“Yea, a salary?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Ten.”
“Ten, or ten thousand?”
“Ten fousand.”
“I’ll take it. What do I have to do?”
“Build paper weapons and two shields?”
“Two shields? Two shields every week?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s using two shields every week? What are they doing with these shields? Would they prefer to have just one really good shield? And what kind of weapons?”
“Dad, you’re fired.”