Dump truck

What does it say about me as a person that every time Jack shoves an entire pack of fruit snacks in his mouth I ask him to say dump truck?  I know what it says about me as a parent, but am I a bad person as well to think it's funny to make an almost four year old curse?  I don't do it all the time, just every once in awhile.  "Hey buddy, say dump truck... Good boy."  It it awful of me?  Yes, and I'm sorry.  But obviously not sorry enough to stop.  I don't think I'll go to hell for that alone, but combined with the fact that I look forward to Monday's, Wednesday's and Friday's for the little thrill I get from watching the kids slip and fall on the wet, freshly mopped floors most likely ensures my reservation in the seventh circle.  To be fair, they fall after I've asked them nicely, begged, scolded and flat out yelled at them to PLEASE sit on the couch and watch the cartoons until mommy is done.  They don't.  They run, skip and jump around my mop, like a wet floor Russian Roulette, practically asking for it.  I can't help laughing, with an I-told-you-so-smugness that I'm not proud of, at the look on their faces when their little butts hit the floor.  It happens three times a week, and it never fails to surprise them.  And it never gets old for me.  Should I feel bad about that?   Probably.  I do my part and warn them about the danger, I predict in my best mom voice that "You guys are going to fall if you aren't careful...", they aren't careful though, and that's the fun part.  Maybe I need to get out more, find a hobby and seek entertainment in more appropriate forms.  Or maybe I'll just pass out snacks and wait for Monday.