Family Circus: Mommy, how old was I when I decided to be borned?

Observe Jeffy's down-turned eyes and generally sluggish appearance. The way he's pointing at nothing in particular. The even more strained than usual construction of his sentence. I'm convinced that what we are witnessing here are the final death throes of Jeffy's brain functionality. By tomorrow, he will be a vegetable, kept alive only by the iron lung the Keanes have been keeping in the basement these last few years, precisely in anticipation of this fateful day.