My dad is not a music guy. He hate that noise and not just since he got old he has never voluntarily listened to music, for its own sake, in my memory. Whenever we had the radio on while we worked or played or hung out and it was within his earshot he would yell at us to shut down that jukebox. That is not me exaggerating, he always told us to shut it off and almost always called any music playing device a jukebox. Because I was only indirectly involved I may be ruining this story but I will tell what I remember or what I think I remembered about Matt getting his radio smashed. We were coming up on power hour, which was when my dad required us to make no noise while he practiced his banjo and then we would read scriptures, both pretenses for him to make us do what he said because he was the dad. I think my dad may have yelled at us to shut off that particular jukebox but like in the joke about not being able to hear someone tell you the radio was too loud because the radio is too loud – we didn't hear him. I was sitting on a bed with my back to the wall that the door was in reading or something and the radio was on a shelf strait in front of the door and if I remember right Matt was next to it or near it. Then all in a bluster the door was slammed open and a purple faced disobeyed and not taking father vomited into the room startling us. He closed the three steps across the room and kicked the stereo, or jukebox if you prefer the medical term, and then pulled it off the shelf and started stomping it to splinters while he punctuated his kicks with swears and ultimatums. Matt was mad but much more composed than my dad and I remember him saying that was fine if he wanted to break his stereo he would just have to buy him another one. He was furious and yelling at us to come into the front room for family time and that we never needed the damn music so loud that we couldn't hear simple requests. Well, sure I guess that makes sense – I think the only recourse a reasonable person would have if someone didn’t hear them would be to dash the noise maker, or Jukebox if you are from the continent, to bits. As was our custom for the next few days Matt and I recreated, to humorous effect, the drama that unfolded between the radio (jukebox – for the orthodox) and my dad. We teased him quite a bit about teaching that inanimate object a lesson. He did, if I remember right, pay for a replacement.