THE MORNING CONSTITUTIONAL AIN'T CRIED SINCE '34

FRANK BEAMER: Hmph.

SHANE BEAMER: Dad, not now.

FRANK: Well, I'm just sayin', the last time I sobbed like that was in 1934, when the bank came and tossed me and Pa and Ma and Abigail and Herman and Lu Lu and Sweet Pea and Condor and Baby Stoop and Michael and Ore-Ida and Whippers and Aunt Bangle and Pete and Mezcal and Cousin Brumble and Dave and Whippers Junior out of our home. Of course, it wasn't a home so much as an overturned silo, and we spent most of our time fighting off pumas and panthers and other devil cats from the hills. But we were happy.

Matter of fact, bank sent a lynx to evict us. I can still remember the car he drove up in, red as a piece of Aunt Bangle's famous cherry pie. We were all pretty broken up about it, cryin' and snivelin' and beggin' him. "Oh please, Mr. Lynx Wearin' A Suit. Just give us one more month. Times sure are hard now, and I trust you're a Christian animal. Can't you find it in your heart to help us?"

But not Pa. Pa just stood there, cool as could be. Didn't bat an eye or shed a tear. Just walked right up to that bankin' lynx and handed him the key to our dilapidated silo home. Told him he'd rather be thrown into a cavern made of rusty needles that are alive and can talk to you and point out your deepest insecurities as they scratch ya than get on his knees for some dandified tabby cat.

And after that, I never cried either.

SHANE: Dad, you weren't even alive in 1934.

FRANK: Hush up and go get me a soft pretzel.