Beyond my control

I have in my mind an image of a quite short person, seething with indignation, almost fit to burst with anger, one more tiny annoyance likely to send them right over the edge, to make them literally pop with fury, like an over-inflated and especially red balloon - an especially red balloon full of fury.

Their much taller antagonist looks down at them. With a maddeningly indulgent smile he or she perkily intones: "Oh, don't be such a Grumpa-Loompa!"

The short person explodes.

My brain came up with that word earlier today, 'Grumpa-Loompa', apropos of nothing. I think it may be trying to kill me. It knows I won't be able to resist using it, should I ever be in that situation - it'll be the one urging me on. It knows it will. My brain is not a good person.

Another pun probably best left unsaid: As a mother, you're 'fair to meddling.'

[Mother-in-law?]

Might be good in the right short story, though.


DISCLAIMER: Happily, I've never had to use that pun, and doubt I ever will :) So don't worry, if you're reading.

DISCLAIMER THE SECOND: My brain probably isn't trying to kill me. It's perfectly aware that I'm so short that the height differential between myself and virtually any other adult human will never be inappropriately comic enough to get me murdered by a Grumpa-Loompa. But I can daydream (and sometimes talk to the cat).