Dogs doing lists #28: Bang the Drum Deadly

Dogs taking a pratfall into a mass grave and glancing around in bewilderment, marveling, “My God, it’s full of drummers.”
Dogs panning down a line of Revolutionary War drummers as they march in tri-corner hats slowly and somberly into battle, and coming to rest on the red, exuberant face, thick eyebrows rising and falling rhythmically over bulging eyeballs, of the Muppet’s Animal.
Dogs leading a bucking bull by the nose through a sparkling chandelier showroom while humming the opening riff of “Moby Dick”.
Dogs flailing in concentrated fury at the height of a drum solo and filling the arena with a sudden, all-consuming flash of white light as the scene now cuts from the stricken faces in the crowd to a long shot some distance from the concert venue where a mushroom cloud is blossoming in violent reds and oranges, the eruption resolving slowly until it fades entirely away, leaving the remaining band members in a garden some years later explaining somberly to a documentary film crew, “There are dozens of cases of spontaneous nuclear fission every year, but they just aren’t recorded.”
Dogs stretching the face of Pete Best over a bass drum and pedaling the mallet relentlessly with his tongue, day and night, day and night, through the entirety of Beatlemania.
Dogs filing an affidavit of ADA non-compliance as Rick Allen fumbles visibly with an iPhone and asks optimistically of the device, now cracked and on the ground, “Call me Thunder God?”
Dogs indicating an infant sleeping soundly in the belly of a bass drum, explaining, “She bangs the drums.”
Dogs pounding an array of oversized djembe drums until a giant human centipede lurches into view and completes a slow, awkward circuit of Skull Island.
Dogs touching a beater gently to a triangle and beginning to quake uncontrollably as distortion waves emanate across the countryside, over the horizon, and all across the globe, the firmament ringing delicately before the oceans and the continents crack and fragment in glorious ecstasy, crumbling tremendously upon the surface of the void.
Dogs snorting a line of Keith Moon’s ashes and nodding off as the waves of eternity lap gently at the shores of consciousness, mumbling, “There is no substitute.”