"I have to work on my farm," Toby informed me yesterday as he watched me slice potatoes for french fries.
"Oh really?" I probed, "What do you need to do there?"
"I have to feed the cows, and the pigs, and the sheeps," he answered. "And there's a bad, bad monster there. He wrestles the horses and the pigs! I have to catch him."
Toby paused here, so I pressed him again, "A bad, bad monster? What will you do with him when you catch him?"
"I'll throw him in the potty!" Toby growled emphatically, "and kill him! He's not gonna be alive anymore!"
"Oh," I said, because, well, what else can one say to death by drowning in sewage? It's a harsh penalty, but he was a bad, bad monster. I decided to move the conversation along. "So what else do you need to do on your farm?"
"And the chickens need some eggs," Toby replied. "I have to give them eggs from the egg feeder, and they have to pay $1.00. And the pigs need pickles."
"I see. Do you grow any plants on your farm?"
"Just green ones. And purple."
Then the potatoes were sliced and seasoned, and apparently the farm work was done, because Toby jumped down from his chair and ran off to find an innocent sister to torture.