About the harm of driving young boys to the women’s bathroom or the Humiliation of Pride.

I always washed in the bathroom, my grandmother washed me and then washed myself. Since I was a child, they didn’t pay attention to me, but I addressed. And here we go somehow with my grandmother in the bus, in front of us sits an uncle with a liquid beard of red color. Since there was nowhere else to look, I stood up on him, and he, polished with such attention, began to communicate with me. and loud. The whole bus. On his head, on his beard.
Do you like what kind of beard your uncle has?
I cried out. I was taught that adults should be respected. Then he inspired continued, “Who am I like with such a beard?”
I don’t know what he expected to get in response, maybe he thought he looked like Lenin. But I enlightened him by opening him and the whole bus’s eyes to the bitter truth.
So who am I like, boy?
To my grandmother! I guessed loudly.
At the next stop, both we and the poor man rushed out of the bus, the rest wiping tears from laughter, went on with a great mood.