While walking the dogs last week, I saw a little boy standing on a sidewalk wearing a full diaper. He was doing his best Hulk Hogan and screaming at a group of older kids across the street.
“I’m gonna beat some butts!” he yelled. “I’m gonna do it! Don’t make me come over there!”
The kids across the street looked at him, stunned, mouths open, nasty little fingers shoved in there with Blow Pops and Double Bubble.
His mom looked at me and shrugged like she didn’t know who he was, like he was a strange roamer who just stopped in front of her house and started berating the kids across the street. Then he turned and grinned at her.
“I told ‘em just like you said, Mama!” he poked out his chest, proud of his accomplishment. Mama just ran out and scooped him up and trotted back in the house. I smiled and walked past, staring that the kids across the street who were now throwing rocks at the neighbor’s car. I wanted to yell the same thing as the little guy, but I refrained.
When I was a kid, the preacher came over to my cousin’s house. My uncle did not like this preacher very much, but pretended to be a gracious host, offering him an assortment of MoonPies and a Dr. Pepper he kept on hand for just such an occasion.
The preacher talked about Sunday services and attendance and finally got around to the offering. That’s when my cousin – who must have been about 8 years old – walked up to the preacher and said with total conviction, “You look like a man who would steal money from the church.”
The chagrined preacher almost choked on his MoonPie.
“Who told you such a thing?” he asked.
My cousin stood firmly said, “My daddy.”
Little kids are indeed funny, unless you are their parents.