Charlie, when you were a baby, you cried so loud that it set off car alarms across Manhattan, but no one could hear them until after you stopped.

You cried so loud that all the paint peeled off the walls, plus most wallpaper and sheetrock.
You cried so loud that every picture in every gallery in New York, plus parts of Connecticut and New Jersey, went crooked.
You cried so loud that birds flying by threw up.
When you cried, snakes grew arms so they could cover their ears, but they could still hear you.
Charlie, when you cried, it was so loud that all the ice in a 134 mile circle around you would suddenly melt.
You cried so loud that deaf people could hear again, but they weren't happy about it because you were just too loud.

You cried so loud that everyone everywhere forgot what they were thinking.
You cried so loud that it woke up every baby on Earth. That's every single baby.
You cried so loud that lions everywhere could only shake their heads and say "Damn."
You cried so loud that Howler Monkeys bowed and named you their new king.

This one time, you cried so loud and for so long that The Mayor cancelled school so kids could have a chance to rest up.

You cried so loud that all the librarians quit.