Death TO Above

Thumper McStomp went mad last night.

I have become used to his early morning routine. When he slips on the football cleats, cranks up his stereo and re-enacts all parts of the Nuremburg rally in interpretive dance, while unsuccessfully attempting to juggle six 10-pound iron dumbbells? I shrug.

The same is true at night.

But at about 2:30 this morning something else happened. I suspect he began to “miss his wife.”

In a physical way.

You know what I mean.

Which I have no problem with. If he wants to sit up there dressed in nothing but a rubber Gorton’s Firsherman hat and smudge-proof sunglasses to avoid blinding himself in the showers of spunk he creates?

He can do what he wants (although I feel mildly creepy that this is the image I came up with).

But when he (apparently) lays on his back on the bare floor, paratroop boots and football helmet on, with his enormous brass ‘helper’ only partly inserted and spastically hacks away at himself with one hand in a catcher’s mitt and the other holding his over-clocked electric toothbrush?

I hear that.