Mrs Kennedy’s Little Boy

A friend of mine told me a nice story about her family the other day. She mentioned that she and her sister were very like her mother. Fair skin, freckles, blonde hair. Their little brother was pure dad, though. Olive skin, dark hair.

The first time the little brother was considered big enough to run an errand, he was sent down to the butcher. This was a time when you would send a primary-school kid down the street without thinking about it. In fact, this was a time when you could send someone down the street to a butcher.

Anyway, the little brother walked in and said, “Hello. I am here for Mrs Kennedy’s meat.”

The butcher leaned over the counter, peered downwards and asked, “And who are you, little fella?”

 “I’m Mrs Kennedy’s son.”

The butcher, amazed, exclaimed, “You’re not Mrs Kennedy’s little boy!”

The little boy, bottom lip quivering and eyes starting to moisten, looked up and asked, “Whose little boy am I?”