My children are, as everyone who's ever met them will whole-heartedly attest, often (but not always) to the chagrin of their own offspring, the best ones ever born. But they're not blessed with what you would call an overabundance of The Funk.
Until now. In the past few months, it's suddenly become very obvious that I finally have a child who seems to have been born with an innate sense of rhythm.
(Indeed, whilst writing this, I played a tiny bit of the linked video, and he immediately began bobbing in time. When I closed it, he looked shocked and hurt. When I opened it again, he said, "keep this on.")
Naturally, Top Management is delighted by this turn of events, barely able to stop grinning whenever The Beast starts up his banging on stuff.
I, on the other hand, feel like I'm in a film from the 1930s: those drums...those blasted drums. Won't they ever stop?
I am given to understand I was the same way as a child. Top Management informs me that I still am—the same way, that is, not a child...I think—but I find that hard to believe.
Either way, I cannot imagine how the hell my parents and sibling put up with it. (My good lady wife and offspring are a bit easier to understand: they pretty much have no choice, as I am too large for them to move.)
And now I can sadly add "No bongos before 7 a.m." to the list of sentences I never thought I'd have to say.