WATCH ME PLAY GOLF, a true story

My daughter reports the following dialogue. A five year old boy was conversing with his mom yesterday. At top volume, too — even though the playlet took place across the street in front it still came in loud and clear through the second floor window in back where Liz transcribed it at this computer. Figure about 75 decibels. (A diesel truck is about 84db.)

Boy: “Hey, Mo-o-o-om?”
Mom: “Ye-e-e-e-s?”
Boy: [After a suspenseful pause] “What’s your favorite sport?”
Mom: “To play, or to watch?”
Boy: [Annoyed at having to state the obvious] “To PL-A-A-AY!”
[Long pause while she considers]
Mom: “Umm … GOLF.”
Boy: [Vehemently] “I can play golf!”
Mom: “Oh, yeah?”
Boy: [Dripping with scorn] “Tsch. Of course. It’s easy!”
Mom: “Well, it doesn’t seem so easy for Tiger Woods.”
Boy: [Con brio] “It’s easy for ME! Watch me. WATCH ME PLAY GOLF!”

Ha! I’m looking forward to moving to L.A., but that kid-talk is the sort of thing I’m going to miss. In California children are illegal.