Ian has unlocked the door of juvenile humor: go with a gross image and beat that horse until it's dead; yesterday in the car he asked-- sincerely-- if he could wash his hands because they were covered in playground mulch, and then he asked if he could wash his feet, and then he asked if he could wash his butt and then he asked if he could wash his farts and then finally he settled on washing his snot, and for the rest of the car ride home he riffed on his mucous: "can you wash my snot . . . can you wash my snot . . . I can wash my snots . . . can you wash your snot?"
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