Yesterday I met a woman who told me that earlier this year she had taken her two young sons on a trip from Utah to New Zealand. On a plane. I specify that part because the only way I think I could travel that far with young kids in such a confined space would be through some yet-to-be-invented magic trick where we all go to sleep in our own beds and wake up on the beach 8,000 miles away. If you're a magician and that idea just inspired you, how about taking it a step further and make it so that when I roll over in the sand I'm face-to-face with a trunk full of money. Being straddled by Brad Pitt in a thong.

I asked her how she survived that long of a flight with two kids and she said it was simple. She told them both that the airline had a designated area specifically for time-outs: in the cargo bay. Down below. With all the luggage and maybe a ferocious wild animal or two. In fact, see the lady in that seat over there? When she checked her luggage she made sure to ask about whether or not her pet lion would be comfortable there at the bottom of the plane. And then made the offhanded remark that she hadn't fed it in weeks.

I thought this was genius and decided that if we ever find ourselves on a long flight with Leta that we'll tell her she better behave or we'll take away her parachute. And then when we survive the crash we'll go home and let Coco look at it.