Poor Youngest. For years, I've told him to use his words rather than his fists. But oh, Lord, what words he is a' usin'! Why, when I was a lad, I'd have had my mouth washed out with soap if I'd said what he says. And that would have been after my daddy had broken a yardstick on me. [Okay, for the record, he didn't break a yardstick on me. He broke it on my brother. And, honestly, yardsticks are pretty damn flimsy. Now, the belt? That was sturdy.]
Back to Youngest and his glibness. All he really wants is to be in control. Go figure that the rest of us won't cede an inch. [Or a foot. Or a yard...stick.] Daughter and her friend were not paying enough attention to his direction. He pleaded. He screamed. They went about doing it their way.
"You jackholes!" he calls them.
I shout down, "Don't you use that word."
"Hey, at least I didn't use the 'A' word."
Later, it occurs to me that he could almost get away with using it if he went with the story that he didn't use the "R" word. [Not the forbidden "R" word, people. "Rabbit."]
And so another day filled with random outbursts and varying degrees of slipping sanity begins.