Thingy must be shot, smothered with a feather-filled pillow, drowned, hanged with a barbed wire, hemlocked, buried alive, slow-roasted over the golden-blue flame-tips of a dozen Bics and if it survives the bite of ten blind, rabid mongrels, Thingy must be trapped shut in a Wilson cloud chamber full of death-rays till you hear it hiss and see it shrink.
Thingy must not be allowed to live is what I am saying.
Thingy is neither cute nor clever. Thingy does not make the imprecision or the incompleteness of the expressed idea disappear. It does just the opposite, in fact.
All we are saying is don't give thingy any more chances.
Please oh please let Thingy out and lock up the doors. Allow it to wander off into the meadow at twilight and when you hear the sound of Thingy tumbling down the cliff at night, call me so I can sleep again.