My godson (nine years old) was getting dressed in the bathroom.
I came in and I said: “I need to take a leak.”
“Oh, no,” he answered, “I don’t want to see your sausage. Your sausage is not my sausage.”
For one second I was flabbergasted. It sounded as if he had listened too much to Rammstein.
But then I remembered that the evening before we had been to restaurant Blaue Gans where he had ordered a bratwurst. That explained a lot.