I was at my sister's place today because she was helping me with my taxes, and at one point I was looking at my 3rd grade nephew's class picture (his name isn't really Colin).

Uncle Ken: This is a good pic of you, bud. And this is your teacher?

Colin: No, the blond one's my teacher. That's my principal.

Uncle Ken: She's your principal?! She's so young, and I don't want to weird you out, but she's kinda fine.

Colin: Okay . . .

Uncle Ken: Maybe you can get her number for me, yeah?

Colin: I don't think . . .

Uncle Ken: Here's what you do: first thing in the morning tomorrow, get in trouble, something bad enough to get sent to the principal. Then you tell her that you're sorry, but your uncle is a counselor, and he's been helping you with your behavior - and that's when you give her my number.

Colin: Okay, I'll get in trouble right away. I'll walk over to the teacher's desk and rub my butt on it (now squatting) and fart and say, "suck on that!"

Mom: Hey, stop saying that!

Colin and Uncle Ken: Sorry . . .