As we quickly learn, Peter Pain - for someone whose name is literally a noun of misery and discomfort - is quite weak. The moment anything or anyone pushes back against his sadism, he folds.

Good Lord, he's hammering a railroad spike into that old lady's back.

If a muscular twinge due to excess ironing makes you want to cancel your trip to New York, perhaps you really don't want to go at all. It's too big, too noisy. You could be outraged by some strange man. But she lubes up and goes, I guess.

"If I get my mitts on the guy who invented Ben-Gay . . . " Yeah, who could that guy be?  Couldn't be the guy whose signature is on the tube, that's spelled differently.