Ping Pong

SO there's this ping pong table in the basement of our building. And my brother f-ing loves ping pong suddenly for some reason. And none of us want to play with him... anymore. The one and only time I played with him (and let's just say here for the record that he didn't beat me by THAT much) I came back up stairs with ping pong ball-shaped bruises on my chest, stomach, pelvis and forearms.

As I type, My brother has my mother lassoed into a chair (his methods of persuasion are, shall we say, rather indiscreet, the one and only time I played he carried me down the stairs over his shoulder) holding on to the middle of her belt (which is undone -- she tried to make a break for it) and rythmically slapping her with the other end. The two of them do this every once in a while.

Until I get so fed up I have to scream at them to stop.

Now all is blissfully silent.

Hallelujah for wind pipes I hope you are never silenced.