There is only one sound in the world that could crumble the mighty walls of Jericho: the humble vuvuzela.
And yes, the Little Trumpet That Could is the musical equivalent of Rocky: small and unassuming but full o’ heart.
But if I might just interrupt you briefly from your 180 decibel bleating…
Could you please take a moment to allow me to enjoy the resonating echo of my inner-ear dying?

I know: you’re excited. You’re ‘in the spirit of things’. I get it.

But seeing as this is our first sexual encounter, I may remind you that first impressions are lasting impressions.
I hope that the look on my face is interpreted as pain–but not the ‘good’ kind of pain that I usually would enjoy from this current sex act.
When you didn’t respond to my flicking on and off my Lava Lamp in a Morse Code saying: “You Rotten Bastard (stop) I’ll Never Hear The Sound Of My Future Grandchildrens’ Voices (stop).”
So I moved to address you with other senses–I tapped on the mat declaring surrender, I vomited down the end of your vuvuzela, and finally I released a musky spray from a gland I didn’t know I had.

Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.
But I will say that I feel my cymbal playing skills have been a little upstaged.