Disclaimer: Sometimes, don't you just want to "Chuck" it all when you realize that you don't own PotF?
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Bad Mommy! You didn't let Daddy go out for Peach Sherbert and Crazy Eights. Daddy's calling Pickford's Child Welfare Office -- unless you give him his cash back before first period, tomorrow. It's not as if I'm hard to bring up: my bottom's always powdered; I don't wander off on my own; I respect the adage "Children should be seen and not heard" -- face it, Pim, I'm every mother's perfect son, but that's just not enough for you, is it? Why won't you love me? Last night, you put me out in the flower bed -- "flour bed?" -- not funny, Mumsy. Then you used me as a paperweight, a doorstop, a medicine ball, and even a test subject for your weekly spackle practice. Child Welfare's disagrees with you: "All-Purpose" Flour doesn't mean a mother gets to do anything she wants to with her baby. NOW, you're going to start acting like a good mother, give Daddy his nights off, cough up his dough-rei-me -- or Miss Levy annonymously receives an envelope filled with photos of me abandoned beside a school dumpster with "PIM" spelled out in white all-purpose in front of me. I'll be waitin' in a basket on your doorstep after school today -- you're giving Daddy the weekend off, understand, Love Muffin? Now, who's your "Daddy?"
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