Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.

Father: "Did you say something?"

Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.

Son: "N-no, dad..."

Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.

Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."

Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.

Father: "Did you say something?"

Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.

Son: "N-no, dad..."

Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.

Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."

Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.

Father: "Did you say something?"

Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.

Son: "N-no, dad..."

Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.

Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."