The most pretentious of all Pink Floyd albums. Pretentious because it just went hellbent for the money, at least their other bombastic full-of-themselves albums made an attempt at a genuine artistic statement. But this is what I have been hearing the last few nights — not Roger Waters wailing about his lost relevance and band, or another obligatory David Gilmour guitar solo (making me dust off the signature riffs from “Time” and “Comfortably Numb“) — but G snoring, sneezing, hacking, and other inexplicable blurtations rising up from the blonde mop on the pillow.

How does such a cute little girl sound like a chronic smoker uttering his death rattle as he finally succumbs to emphysema? How do the noises from a 32lb tinyHuman evoke images of a hippopotamus in heat?

Its creepy, its scary, there are stalactites evolving on her nostrils overnight, and exorcist-worthy demons living in her lungs. I wake up screaming, looking for the Mongol hordes and the creatures of the deep coming to eat me and my daughter. I had to actually reach over and make sure she was still alive her breathe sounded so muddy, inspiring an earth-shaking snotabelchelation for my efforts.

The daylight drives out the evil spirits, leaving only a pair of blue eyes peeking above the covers asking me for breakfast.

Maybe I should call a priest? or a shaman?