Children are assholes

Looking out the patio door of my apartment, I am observing two small children, a boy and a girl-brother and sister, I am assuming-between the ages of 4 and 6.  The girl is clearly the elder, judging by the authoritarian tone she is taking with him; the lad is screaming and crying whilst gliding across the sidewalk on a pink scooter, his keeper chasing him on a tricycle, ordering him to “wait up.”

I had to snort when I first heard and observed the cry-baby pass my building.  It amuses me that he was upset enough to carry on with a pissy-pants tantrum, but not so bothered that he couldn’t manuever the scooter, and quite expertly, I might add.  I mean, this boy here, he really flew over the pavement, his right, filthy bare foot paddling at the pavement as if it were a Goddamn body of water.

The poor little girl peddling the fucking tricycle cannot rival her brother’s pink scooter and his mad scooter skills, as she is now throwing a fit of her own, having been left so far behind, coughing in the dust.  That’s right, Miss Boss, kick the bike…and now toss the bike…yell for your mother.  I guess you shouldn’t have pushed young Jason off of his treasured tricycle, eh?

That’s right.  I watched you do it.  And I watched the thieving of your stupid pink scooter, too.

Bitch.