Every time I punch the wall lately, the wall punches back. The other day, I was gazing longingly at the Louisville Slugger I keep at my bedside to ward off intruders and fast-pitch softballs, and thinking how much I wanted to do some damage to the cheap furnishings I put together myself. Then I thought about the wall hitting back and figured if the bat did that too, I would likely end up with a concussion.

I have always felt bad for the people who have to go into the emergency room and tell the doctors that they like fell out of the harness that hangs from the ceiling in their bedroom or tumbled off their roof when they were spying on the MILF next door in the shower, but I imagine getting clocked by an unmanned baseball bat would be met with the same kind of horror-struck stare.