Clash of the Mini-Titans

When is the potential for metaphor so abundant that it becomes, well, meta-metaphorical?  The following was observed this afternoon on 76th between Park and Madison:

Nanny #1, keeper of Squire Jack, a carrot-topped and tow-headed young lad of perhaps 30 months:  “Jack wants to go home.  He doesn’t want to play.”

Nanny #2, wheeling unidentified tot of approximately the same age:  “Fine.  He’s tired of Jack hitting him, anyway.”

As they come about with their urban assault strollers to head in opposite directions, I notice that Jack’s sippy cup and other accoutrement are crammed into a Goldman Sachs tote; Nanny #2 is sporting a slightly larger tote from–you guessed it–Merrill Lynch.  At least it wasn’t Lehman.

And no, I am nowhere nearly clever enough to make this stuff up.


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