Sometimes I just don't even know

I was hosting Book Club (reality check: Wine Club) a couple weeks ago and as I was prepping in the kitchen doing some intense chopping fueled by a Kirkland brand margarita I heard Frank scream.  This scenario is not abnormal in my house in any way on any evening be it the intense chopping rushing to get dinner on the table, the margarita, or the screaming.  I have finely tuned my Mom Ears to pick up the screams I need to listen to and those I need to ignore and pore a teensy bit more margarita in my glass.  This was one I needed to heed, in double time.

I drop the chef knife and book it to the toy room to see Frank screaming and crying in obvious distress.  He is too distraught to even tell me what happened.  I spy Dave sitting quietly, too quietly, too still, on the window seat avoiding my eagle eye glare.  I ask him with all the accusation I can muster in my voice what happened to Frank.  Dave gives me the expected puzzled look and slow head shake indicating he has no idea why his brother is screaming like he'd like to meet his maker instead of go on another minute.  I narrow my eyes and ask again but this time with a threat - David Christopher you better tell me what happened to your brother because he will eventually stop crying and when he tells me what happened it will be much worse if I hear it from him.  I see Dave size up Frank (who is wrapped into my maxi skirt by this time) mentally calculate how long it might take Frank to stop crying and decide if he has time to pack a bag and find alternate accommodations.  The realization hits him that he either has to crash through the window and run for it, or own up.

Here's how the conversation went down.
D: Frank asked me to kick him in the weiner.
M: What?
D: Frank asked me to kick him in the weiner.
M: ... ... ... ...

Usually I've got the punishment at the ready to be meted out to the correct offender, but this one caught me completely off guard.  Then Jerry walks into the situation...

J (stern Jerry - ready to support me in whatever insanity I'm trying to referee): Boys, what's going on?
D: (blank look, not wanting to admit this again)
F: (down to sniffling, still cowering in my skirt, but looking up at me to see if he's in trouble too)
M: Frank told Dave to kick him in the weiner.
 J: (quietly dies laughing behind my back)
M: You're both stupid.  I'm going back to the kitchen.

^^^ helping move worms into the right place in Grandma's garden