Little Boy Blows

Is it so wrong that I entertain delicious fantasies about an aluminum baseball bat, freshly heated to skin-searing perfection, propped over my shoulder as I assume a perfect batter’s stance, which I swing with all my might against the side of the head of Little Boy Blue, my inconsiderate, oblivious talentless hack of a neighbor who insists on polluting the air with hideous horn-blowing? And then, not satisfied with the mere pulp created by this bashing, proceeding to press the red-hot bat to the worthless lips that press themselves against the mouthpiece of the horn he abuses day and night?