Conversations with a five year old.

As I have stated a million times before, I adore my best friend Kay's son, RAM. He's the coolest kid on the planet, and probably the closest thing I'll ever have to a child of my own. Sometimes, I can't believe some of the shit this kid says.

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Saturday, we were all hanging out at Kay's watching football, and I was talking to her five year-old son, RAM. We were having our usual chit-chat - I asked him what he learned in school, and he asked me why I was the only one without a husband. Who says they're not angels?

Me: So what did you learn in school yesterday?
RAM: Miss Judy said we don't have to go to school Monday because a brown man got shot in the head.

At this point I didn't know if laughing out loud at that meant that I was going to hell or not, so I didn't.

Me: A brown man?
RAM: Yeah. We saw pictures, and he was brown. His name is Mark Burger King.

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Sunday, again, watching football at Kay's. RAM knows that I have had surgery, and what it is for. We were all sitting around a table with chips, and dips, and all other assortments of crappy football party food.

RAM: TT(that's what he calls me). Take this.
Me: What is this?

He handed me a folded up paper towel, and in it were chips, candy, and about five cookies, none of which he was allowed to have.

RAM: Don't tell my Mom. Tell her it's yours.
Me: You want me to lie to your Mom?
RAM: Yeah. She told me if I had any more cookies she was going to kick my butt, so if you tell her they're yours, she won't get mad at me.
Me: But she knows I don't eat this food.
RAM: I know. Mom told me if you eat this your stomach will blow up in your body and you'll go back in the hospital and have tubes in your nose and your arms again.
Me: See... now why would I lie and say it's mine if that could happen?
RAM: Because you love me. Don't let my Mom kick my butt, TT. If you love me, you'll do it.

How in the hell does a fucking five year-old already know how to play the guilt card like that? I swear to god, he's a little evil genius.

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This afternoon, Kay, RAM, and I were at the pet store getting crap for my cats and their dog (who sadly, Kay named after Jessica Simpson, her lesbian fantasy).
RAM and I always like to look at the animals for a while before we go.

RAM: TT, look at this spider.
Me: No way!! I don't like spiders.
RAM: Me either. Who the hell wants a spider for a pet?

I swear, that's exactly how he said it... like I said, he's a genius! I wish I was slick enough to talk like that when I was five.

Me: I don't know. People who like spiders?
RAM: Uh, yeah, maybe FREAKS who like spiders. They are wackos.
Me: They're not wackos just because they like spiders (secretly I think they are, but we're molding a mind here). That's not nice.
RAM: But you said people who have rats as pets are wackos. Remember? When we took Jessie (the lesbian fantasy dog) to the doctor and the lady had a rat on her shoulder? You said she was a wacko.
Me: Whatever. You win.

Little bastard. I forget that their tiny brains retain EVERY FUCKING THING that they hear people say, and just love to throw it in your face later.

He has a brilliant career as a defense lawyer ahead of him.