Uncle Bill, for example, came over to snake the drain last Tuesday and it would not fit. It would not fit, and Maryanne, in the throes of a particularly aggressive resurgence of her characteristic PMDD, decided there and then that she would pull out the pogostick and have a whack at it. She retrieved the pogo from the basement, and marched directly to the kitchen sink, sweeping aside her sticky thermos and the bottle brush she had recently purchased in an effort to clear the surrounding counter space. She briefly recalled her time spent in the circus as a contortionist, and how one of the audience members had pulled her aside and suggested that she consider incorporating a pogostick into her routine. "What would i be doing with this pogostick?" asked Maryanne. "Trying to make yourself cry."
"Stab it like it's a wounded animal," said Uncle Bill clearly, methodically, as Maryanne resurfaced from the basement with the pogostick in her hand, a wounded expression on her face.