LUNCH WITH A SMALL PERSON

Absolutely not. You cannot have ANY of my fried chicken. Stop asking.
No, there are good reasons. You'll understand when you are older.
I absolutely refuse to bribe you with my fried chicken.
It's mine. My lunch. I paid for it.
My chicken.

Emotional blackmail will get you nothing!

Oh stop looking at me like that!
I already told you!
Mine!

You wouldn't like it anyhow.
It's covered in hot sauce. Slathered, drenched, soaked, and sodden.
Tương Ớt Sriracha.
Bad for you. Yummy for me, but you wouldn't like it.
Sorry. I didn't know you were hungry.
I will NOT be swayed by your big sorrowful eyes.

See, I know exactly what would happen. First you'd gobble it down.
Then you'd experience noticeable distress.
Baffling discomfort.

And then you'd lick your privates.
With hot sauce residue all over your tongue.
The cops would end up shooting you, as you run around howling.

The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain! The pain!

Either that, or you'd obsessively keep licking to alleviate the burning sensation, like a child sucking its thumb. Exactly so. It's an equivalent.
There's parity there.

You'd probably blame me for the feeling.
And there's nowhere here to take a nice cold shower.
Besides, you wouldn't be able to adjust the water-flow anyway.
What with you being so short and all.
And not having any thumbs.
Or actual hands.

Woof.

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