"I don't know how to build a Toyota Tundra. Can you help me?" "I'll help you when I'm done building my silly car," I said. I had cannibalized a bunch of odds-and-sods from our son's Legos and was constructing ridiculous cars with them: the Pizza-Oven-mobile, with umbrella shooting flame out the top; the snowmobile powered by ferns and a giant rocket propulsion system. It came so naturally creating these gems of absurdity it was like riding a duck.
"What's a silly car?" he asked.
"You know, a silly car."
"Silly car?" he queried.
"Yeah, you know. Silly car."
"A car made by Silly?"
I chuckled. "No, a silly car. You know, a car that is silly."
"Is Silly the brand?"
"No," I insisted. "Just silly."
"Is it the make or the model?" Seriously, who is this kid?
"A car that is silly. It's silly, ridiculous. It is a car that is just...silly. You want to make one?"
He pondered it for a while. Then he made a car with a cat box, a mobile lunch counter, with a retracting dump truck roof, powered by the sky. I think he's embraced the brand identity of the Silly Car.