And the "Best Dad" Award goes to...

Long before I threw my sleep-deprived, cold self onto a plane that dark Tuesday morning in Medford, there was one man who's been the Keeper of the Cargo.  The Securer of the Sustenance.  The Provider of the Power.

And because of previous conversation revolving around myself, wook, and my intense need for Cheerios some 4.2 minutes after first cracking my eyes, that one man decided to prepare for Armageddon incase someone wasn't phased with the threats of a nuclear hunger strike.

So in the bottom of my checked luggage, in my Container Store shoe box (which houses my fabulous pair of Clarks), was a little ziploc baggy of The Good Stuff.  Little wheat halos.  Joy to my eyes.  Yes, picture quality is bad.  I was tired.  Slightly cranky from the delays.  A little happy from that beer that I just had.  The Post-It says, "who's the best dad?"

Wait?  How the hell did that get into my suitcase?

I swear my dad could be working for a drug cartel with that successful maneuver.  Damn, he's good.  I didn't even notice.  When did he get into my bag?  Where was I?  I swear I was buzzing around that luggage until sometime near 2am.  Is he a ninja?  A jedi?  Mr. Invisible?

Who knows, but I guess the next time I need Sudafed in the State of Oregon, I know who I'm hiring.