My friend Sophia’s little brother is a whopping seven years old. Don’t let his age fool you, though. He’s right on track to being a first class smartass. Case in point:

When my mother told him not to touch something, he said, "But I live here too, and I'm ultimately going to inherit all of this anyway."

He told me, "I really don't want to get married, but I'm going to because I want our last name to carry through the generations."

But something tells me it’s in his genes. Sophia describes a typical morning at home:

Walk in on your mom playing the stock market and badmouthing various companies in Bengali. It occurs to you that the only other times you hear those words anymore are when she's talking to her sister about the evil bitch who lives in Australia who claims to be your cousin. This small fact warms the cockles of your petty heart, and you make tea with gusto.