Oh, come now, I know I make a fine old draft horse. In the, er, non-Euclidean sense.

[What does that even mean? We just don't know. But at least he's got the good sense to set aside the bourbon so they don't end up spilling it all over the comforter, since that'd be much more of an inconvenience than dumping it all over the couch and carpet.

But look at them! They landed on the mattress! Good show!]

I'm glad you concede the entertainment value of the giant chicken, however.