In essaying a description of last night's wailing I settled on calling it "the sound of an immense undead hog being set on fire and prodded through cobbled streets by a mob bristling with pitchforks".
It fails to deliver full impact, but provides a whiff of the aural apocalypse that transformed our formerly peaceful living room into a psychic abattoir.
His habit when hungry is to wave both fists in front of his face, which makes giving him what he wants a challenge.
This morning the wife enlisted my aid constraining his rogue limbs.
We each grasped an arm and pulled down.
He paid off into his diaper like a slot machine, in perfect synch with our actions.
If I hadn't been half asleep I'd have shouted JACKPOT! and charged around the house shouting for a giant plastic bucket to hold my winnings.
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