A few years ago we visited some friends. Our young children played rambunctiously together while we adults talked in the kitchen.

The house was full of kids. They were everywhere. Thousands of them.

And almost every toy in our hostess’ house made noise. Lots of noise. Thousands of children playing with thousands of loud, loud toys.

As we talked, the sound levels got higher and higher. I tried to ignore it as it didn’t seem to bother our friend.

Finally, as we tried to talk over the hue and cry, a child entered the room with some sort of rolling contraption covered with Sesame Street characters. All the kids were yelling and laughing and playing with various bleeping and blooping and clicking and clacking and tooting and hooting toys… and then as the coup de grace, this horror arrives. As a torture device it would have given the Inquisition a run for its money.

The toddler pushing it kept hitting Burt’s nose as the machine barked “nehhNEHNEHNEHnehnehNEHNEHNEHneh” in this annoying repetitive retarded Muppet laugh.

At like 120 decibels.

I thought… this is hell.

This is the absence of all goodness.

And that’s why we take the batteries out of toys, son.