It's also the four words that best describe every single toy in my house. I know America is circling the drain because our kids are taking it up the ass in math and science courtesy of Asia, and we're all supposed to be buying them toys that make them less stupid than they purportedly (and statistically) are.
But does patriotism and the relentless pursuit of industry truly require the floor of my home to be carpeted in microscopic Lego pieces the size and color of ice cream sprinkles? And while I loved the 252-piece foam puzzle map of the earth when it arrived put together in six or seven large panels, it was slightly less fun when ultimately reduced to what you see below.
I fully appreciate the entertainment and educational value of these toys, but stepping on them in the middle of the night is much less awesome than assembling them. And even assembling them is not super awesome, because there's a chicken-and-egg paradoxical sort of irony associated with that endeavor. You see, in order for you as a parent to have fun assembling these projects, you need to be very intoxicated. The problem is, the more intoxicated you get, the harder it becomes to correctly assemble these projects.
Suddenly, Australia is stuck to Belize and your son thinks Germany is bordered to the south by Vietnam. Next thing you know, your daughter's 600 piece Lego princess-friend-Rapunzel-bake-shop-beach-castle-cupcake-stand (or whatever shit-fuck-stack Lego made to market math and engineering to girls) is sixteen instructions deep and you screwed up on instruction number 12. That means attempted dis-assembly with your teeth and a fork, and back-tracking and tears all around.