... violently slams his head into a nearby bannister, easily concussing the wee tyke in the process ...
And he worked hard for that D average. Thanks a bunch, Stinger.
... and slides him across the fireplace mantel like a desperado in an old-timey saloon, breaking plates all over Timmy's busted little body and covering his face with enough splinters to guarantee a lucrative future as Li'l Pinhead.
Timmy refused to pick up his toys the easy way.
No headlocks or armbars need apply -- this is 100 percent assault, not that anybody notices. The whole time, Timmy's parents just stand there like imbeciles, thoroughly enjoying the show (with Mom even whispering to Dad, "It looks so real"). They're about to drown under a continent-size batch of medical bills at best, bury their own child at worst, and it's too bad Sprite never filmed a sequel where the parents finally figure this shit out.
All of this has fucking squat to do with Sprite. Timmy's initial theory that "flavorless goop = Popeye-esque power source" proved futile because -- narrator's words -- Sprite can't "do anything but help quench your thirst." I hope Timmy kept that in mind during his horrible ordeal: "My lungs are seeping out my penis and my brain's bleeding out my nose, but at least my throat is decidedly unparched."