First joke

Malcolm had an array of dishes, cups, bowls, and smoothie bottles in front of him. He had eaten a little of his broccoli-and-rice casserole, but mostly he had become absorbed in carefully spooning it into his half-full smoothie bottle.
"Mal . . . . !" his mother quailed in annoyance.
"It's good this way," he insisted, with three-year-old earnestness. He did take a hit off his concoction, a tiny dribble of orange wrapping around his chin. He plunked down the container, now drained of smoothie but still holding plenty of yogurt-slimed broccoli, and he declared, "I want ice cream."
"You need to finish all the stuff in that bottle, Mal, before I would give you any ice cream."
"Oh," he said, composing his face and tone into one of patient tolerance, as if he was the one talking to a three-year-old, "That's way too much."
"Well, if you don't have room for that, there's no way you have room for ice cream," said Janet.
"I have room!" he said brightly, "See, riiiiight heeeere..." and he pointed to the one spot of bare table in front of him that doesn't already have a bowl or a plate occupying it.
I cracked a smirk, trying not to laugh out loud, and failed miserably. Janet shot me the mock-anger "how-could-you" glare, which only made me dissolve into giggles and nearly fall out of my chair.

Ah, the dawn of word-play with ironic intent!