It’s my new idiom for any stress relieving activity. Like last night, when Brooke and I laid in bed, surveying the many moving boxes* creating a fort-like structure around the room, I turned to Brooke and said, “Man I really gotta punch the koala.” She misunderstood, and we ended up having sex (which worked, too) but I remain intent on making this catch on.
* Oh yeah, we’re moving. Again. Apparently we were raised to believe that like sex-based relationships and uncured meats, apartments go stale after a year. More on this soon. Meanwhile, punch the koala, bitches.