Farmer H is getting on my last nerve. It's in the neck area, on the left side.
Last night, as I was trying to accrue some quality shut-eye, what with the need to arise at 5:00 to get ready to take The Pony to his ACT test, I noticed an object under my pillow. No, it was not a pea. I can see how you might think that, what with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom all dainty and princesslike, the tiniest foreign object detected by the blue-blooded, porcelain-skinned shell that encloses her blithe spirit. No, this was not a pea. It was the ham-hock-like arm of Farmer H!
I swear, that man is like a Hindu deity with 18 arms. Or like the Inspector Gadget that McDonalds handed out disembodied limbs with in their Happy Meals. Extra arms that could snap on as needed. Maybe Farmer H ate way too many Happy Meals during ARM week. Or bought a box of them at the auction.
Okay. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little. Maybe Farmer H is merely like an octopus. Or a squid. Sweet Gummi Mary! He HAS been known to squirt out a bit of unpleasantness when startled. Or when not startled. Or when sound asleep.
WHY must he put that gargantuan arm under my pillow? MY pillow? It would be bad enough just to lay my head on that Giant Sequoia petrified log and contort my cervical vertebrae past the point of no return. But Farmer H adds a special touch all his own. Don't nobody go stealin' Farmer H's move! Even though he is not up to snuff on all his Seinfeld lore, he might try to sue you for using his move.
HE SCRATCHES THE PILLOW!
Yeah. From underneath. It makes a disturbing noise. Farmer H has always had this little peccadillo. Even sitting in his La-Z-Boy, chatting about new tractors, or additional outbuildings, or fantastic auction finds...Farmer H snakes his arm under the side table and scratches the bottom of tabletop. What is up with that? I have almost broken him of the habit in his waking hours. With my special brand of psychological hypnosis: "STOP SCRATCHING THAT TABLE WHILE YOU TALK TO ME!"
The unconscious hours are a bit problematic. Sometimes I jam my own arm up under there and stab his meaty forearm with my fingernails. Sometimes I reach back and pound him on the bicep with my fist, which is not always effective because I cannot contort myself to punch full force. Sometimes I jab him in the belly and say, "Back off! Get your arm out from under my pillow!" Yes. All loving tactics sure to make Farmer H want to remove his flesh-and-bone gun from against my three-tier-pillowed head. Not.
Sometimes, I want to twist a kink in his breather hose. Kind of like cutting off the oxygen to a deep-sea diver. Other times, I want to hack off that arm with a Case Collector Knife.
With my luck, Farmer H would grow another one like a starfish. And that arm would grow a whole new Farmer H! The horror of that scenario is almost too much to contemplate.