The mother walks into the kitchen and asks the seven years old what he wants for breakfast.
“Oh sh.., mum, I guess I’ll have some Coco Pops.”
W HACK!! He flew out of his chair, tumbled across the kitchen floor, got up, and ran upstairs crying his eyes out.
She looked at the four years old and asked with a stern voice, “And what do YOU want for breakfast, young man?”
“I don’t know,” he blubbers, “but it won’t be bloody Coco Pops.”
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