Toys. No, not that kind.
I was hanging out with Niall tonight (my son, aged three) and I was, with no particular purpose, singing, “Pop goes the weasel.”
Niall matches my inflection and tune, and sings, “Down goes the hooker.”
My head spins around. “WHAT did you just say?”
“Down goes the hooker.”
So I adjust myself to see what he has in his hands. He has a toy tractor with a winch and line, on the end of which is a hook. He’s lowering it down. The hooker. Down it goes. The hooker.
So here I go, passing it on to you, and getting my site blocked by family filters, because of a toy tractor and a semantically-confused three-year-old.
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