My sons are fans of "motor sports." I don't know how that happened, because I am not a fan. Somehow our oldest son independently found out that race car driving exists, became a fan of it, and then corrupted his two younger brothers.
Our youngest son, Screamapillar, was showing my a picture of a race car belonging to a man named Alex Bowman, about whom I know nothing. But it was No. 88, which I happen to know was once the number of Dale Earnhardt, Jr. (Some things get through my self-imposed cone of ignorance because you can't live with three motor-sport enthusiasts without a little seepage.) I said, "That's Dale Jr." He said, "No, it's Alex Bowman." I said, "It's Dale Jr.'s ghost." He said, "Dale Jr.'s not dead." I asked, "Have Alex Bowman and Dale Jr. ever been in a Freaky Friday-type of situation where a well-meaning meddlesome woman at a Chinese restaurant caused their spirits to switch bodies?" He looked at me like, "Does my dad actually think Freaky Friday could happen?!"