Harris lightly steals the show at the end, when her all-forgiving mompride has her dancing exceptionally mommishly to Rodrick’s heavy-metal band.

Bill runs into the kitchen and tells Dad that Erik is throwing a tantrum. He tells Bill to go back and watch his program and to ignore his brother. Fifteen minutes later, Erik is still screaming […]

We are all made of stardust.

(98) Page 188. / On the 2d of May, 1801, I was invited to Malmaison at nine o’clock in the morning. I was utterly ignorant who the lady was that invited me, although I was pretty well persuaded it must be some one attached to Josephine. I was far, however, from supposing that, in her present elevation, she could condescend to think of me. I know by long experience that a certain kind of knowledge has but few admirers. It appeared that my illustrious consultress, in order to conceal from her friends what were the real revelations she wanted from me, had given out that she was anxious to discover the author of a theft recently committed in the chateau—this, at least, was what the lady told me who introduced me.