On murder

On murder

A man can't even get into his own bed at night without cold-blooded murder taking place under his own roof.

Take last night, for example, went the air was rent with screams:

"AAAaaaaaAAAaaaAAARgggrrrhhhhh!"

And: "Mwaaaaaaaaaeeeekkk!"

This is followed by various sound effects including - but not limited to:

Crash!

Slam!

Thwoooop!

"Die!Die!DIE! YOU BASTARD!"

BokbokbokbokTHWACK!

tinkletinkletinkleSMASH!

Ker-lunk!

"WHY WON'T YOU DIE?!"

Swish!

ZERRRRRRRRRR-T!

Flush......

"Heh."

"And what," I ask of a beaming Mrs Duck, "is going on in there?"

"There was a fly. In the bathroom."

"And you killed it, you dreadful murderess. You killed it to DEATH."

"I didn't kill the thing. It committed suicide."

"Riiiight. Did it leave a note? Did it tie itself a tiny noose and hang itself from the loo roll holder, squeaking a tiny 'Goodbye cruel world'?"

"Err... no. It flew into the light and fell down the toilet."

"And how do you know that it wasn't a tragic accident, brought on by your murderous intent? Answer me that, clever trousers."

So she clubbed me in the fork. I hate it when they get the last word.