The Ladybug and I were in the car, driving to get soda (or, as the Ladybug likes to call it despite my valiant attempts to dissuade her, “pahp.”) I was getting a large a Coke, as a reward for my hours of yard work: lawn mowing, edging, weed-whacking, the works. The Ladybug was getting a small Sprite as a reward for her hours of yard work: individually plucking out blades of grass and dropping them in the yard-waste bag.
As we drove up to the Circle K, I spied a gaggle of malformed teens slouching a ways from the door, their tattered pants hanging down to their knees, held up only by what appeared to be a complicated rigging of wallet chains and sheer disdain for gravity. I hopped out of the car and made my way round to the other side to extricate the Ladybug from the seventeen-point crash-harness known as her car seat. As I did so, I caught the following snippet of conversation:
Slack-jawed teen: … And that’s when he said he got totally hammered. That‘s when he bit her nipple off.
Mouth-breathing teen: Dude! He bit her nipple off? How’d he do that?
My immediate thought: “how he bit it if off was actually pretty self-explanatory, and that the real interrogative pending any meaningful discussion was why.”
My next-to-immediate thought: “slackers loitering outside a gas station yammering on about hammered, dude, and nipples were probably incapable of a meaningful discussion of anything,” and I left it at that.
I opened the door and stooped in to get the Ladybug out of the car. Attentive as always, she pointed to the teens and said “Boys,” simultaneously tugging her invisible baseball cap (the ASL sign for boy).
“No, those are morons,” I corrected the Ladybug, and then snatched her out of the car and headed into the store.
As we walked past the slackers, the Ladybug spun around, waved a big wave at them, and in her sweetest voice announced, “Hi, morons!“