Stinker Bell

Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle.
I am sound asleep in the big, fluffy chair, when the nerve jangling, jingle of Mark's bell startles me awake.
Jingle, jingle, jingle.
"Alan, oh Alan!" Mark is calling from the bedroom.
Mark has a cold, and isn't feeling well. Unlike me, he doesn't nurse on a bottle of Nyquil and knock himself out when he ails. No, Mark likes to lay in bed with his little brass bell, and ring for me every five minutes. He is constantly calling for soup, tissues, hot tea, pillow plumping, as if I am his private nurse. He is a royal pain in the ass when he gets sick.

Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle.
"What? What the hell do you want now?" (My bedside manner isn't the greatest.)
"Can you get me some water, and could you turn the television on for me?"
Five minutes later.
 Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle.
"I swear, I'm going to shove that goddamned bell up your ass sideways if you don't stop."
"Could you get me some peppermint tea? Make sure you put honey in it."
So I didn't shove the bell up his ass. I snatched it while he was sipping his tea, and hid it. If he reads this post he will figure out where it is. If he doesn't I will continue to not hear that damned jingling bell. Instead, all I'll hear is Mark's squeaky voice calling out from the bedroom, and after sixteen years I've learned how to tune that out.