I mean, you might think that with a condition like his they would try to control the throbbing, but he just keeps pounding away at it like there's no tomorrow. I told him last week, when the doctor gave him that ointment, that he really should try seeing somebody with some experience in this sort of thing. Make hay while the cookie crumbles, and all that. But he won't listen to me, he's in there with the high-voltage lines hooked up to the rhododendron and the stereo cranked all the way up, he's having his little experiments, but who's left making dinner at the end of the day? You know, he threw his ant farm out the window last night. He said he couldn't protect them from fate, so why even bother.
He calms down a bit when they show that one commercial on TV - you know, the one where the kid gets his face eaten off because he wasn't wearing cool enough shoes - but then when they fade to black, his eyes get all glassy, and he starts breathing funny, and before you know it he's whipped out the garden weasel and he's back to his old tricks.
I'm thinking I might go out and find myself a fancy hat and get all lathered up and maybe unpack the old trombone and have at it. It's obvious that he can't be reasoned with, and as long as they keep delivering the crates of beans he won't even notice I'm gone. Yes. That's what I'll do.