So when you are deep into Dad House production, you learn a few tricks of the social trade when dealing with little people you are ultimately responsible for. "Subliminal Massages"...are used when everything is ultimately going wrong: you burned breakfast, someone nabbed someone else's favorite cup, and the screams are not those of house music enthusiasts after a killer drop in the club...you role in with the "Subliminal Massages". It's not a real massage, but more like "I acknowledge that you are freaking out over ridiculous shit, and I don't really want to deal with, but I am legally required to be nice to you, and ultimately I do love you, but I would rather be making house music right now." Most of the time, this does nothing to remedy the situation, but at least I might feel better about it for a brief moment. Being Dad House is a thankless job sometimes, but when everyone is fed and in bed, the headphone go on, and it all pours right into those smooth jams that you have been hearing lately from the Flapjack camp. I hope you enjoy this next installment of parental grooves from the fine purveyors of the most important meal of the day.
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