Last Christmas, Tom got me a Clapper. Practically before I'd gotten the wrapping paper off my gift, he'd ripped open the box and installed the Clapper in our bedroom. I could tell he'd fantasized about reclining on his pillows and clap-clapping off the lights.
The Clapper lasted about one night.
Just as I slid into a peaceful sleep, earsplitting claps shattered the silent night. Tom only suffered minor contusions when I popped straight up in the air and came down flailing.
At a Yankee Swap, we regifted the Clapper to Tom's mother, but then Andrew stole it.