It doesn’t happen every time, but it happens often enough.  There I am, six feet tall, and built like a tank, with a full beard and one lobotomy-covering American-flag headband away from a recurring role on Duck Dynasty, standing in the grocery store aisle crying like a baby.  It’s not because mommy won’t buy me Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs but because I won’t buy them for my daughter.  Or, more accurately, because I can’t buy them for my daughter. (more…)