My husband, Willis, has issues. (I know. It sounds like I'm starting out mean, doesn't it? Hang on.)
Any time that he is home and watching TV, he's always flipping the remote controls and dropping them on the floor. It's some sort of fidget, tick, something that he does. He has to be flipping a remote while he's sitting there most of the time. It kind-of makes me crazy. I'm always yelling at him, "Holy crap, Willis! You're gonna break those remotes!"
He usually replies with an embarrassed, "Mmmyeah."
Well, it's not just a fidget issue now. He's, like, meant to destroy these remotes—even if he's not purposely messing with them. He'll be shuffling through blankets or pillows on the couch to grab the remotes, and he'll knock one on the floor in the process. One will be sitting out in the open on an end table, he'll reach for it, and he'll accelerate it to the floor. Last night, something happened that made me throw in the towel about this issue.
Willis went to lay down on the couch next to me while we were watching some Thursday night TV, and as he flopped down, his foot went up in the air and directly contacted the two remotes that were sitting on a TV table next to us. The remotes went soaring through the air, and they both gloriously crashed to the floor just moments later.
Typically, this would prompt me to shout, "Holy crap, Willis! You're going to destroy those remotes!"
Instead, I just laughed so hard that I cried.
It is clear. He will destroy the remotes. I just have to let go now, and I have to laugh at it because, holy crap, it's really stinking funny.