Let me set the stage for you
Mar. 21st, 2012 06:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficSo our neighbors, who I'm going to assume sight unseen are douchebags for reasons I'm about to get into, have this giant-ass tree which, every summer, bukkakes pollen everywhere. Since I own a new car, I don't want that shit all over my finish. So I figure, hey, wait, we've got a perfectly good garage—why don't I clear out a space, get myself a car wash, park the car in there from now on, drive around like a champ?
I tell the 'rents—I'm going to be cleaning out the garage. No charge, don't even have to ask me, problem? No. Do you want to help, Mom? Oh sure. She doesn't. Do you want to help, Dad? Oh sure. He doesn't.
So, here we are today. It's my day off. I have, this week, worked three nine-hour days, two eight-hour days, and one seven-hour day. I have work tomorrow, another big week because it's the Hunger Games premiere. I could kick back, but hey, why put off till tomorrow? I mean, that's what any parent would say, right? Do the job now, don't be lazy.
So, I go into the garage. We've got all kinds of shit there. Rolled-up old carpet, old blinds, a box full of shoes my siblings wore when they were kids. Stuff that no one would ever use. So I figure, fuck, this is garbage. Better line it up neatly on the curb for the garbagemen.
Keep in mind, my parents know I'm doing this. My mom is watching TV, my dad is working on a laptop, I tell them what I'm doing, I'm going in and out. They know the score. I work for hours. We've got old lamps going out, old boxes, old magazines, and I'm also sorting through it as I go so nothing valuable gets lost. Patrick Stewart's one-man show of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol: SAVED.
Job's half-done, I'm getting a glass of water (did I mention I'm doing this on the verge of a Texas summer, on my day off, for free?). Suddenly, they "realize" I'm doing stuff.
Mom: Oh no, you can't throw stuff out!
Dad: Oh no, you can't leave stuff on the curb. The garbageman doesn't come for a few days.
Like, what the fuck? I'll probably be working in a few days. I work long hours. The job's done now. All that remains to be done is leave an orderly, neat stack of garbage on the curb for the garbageman to pick up in a few days.
So, what does my dad do? He picks the garbage up. He puts it back in the garage. When I left to write this breaking news, he and my mom were talking about a bag of bottled water they'd found in the garage (possibly next to the Hyperborean Temple of The Damned Dead, and to the left of a broken chair that was sure to come in handy for someone to not sit on). "Just put it by the refrigerator."
Yeah. Drink the garage water. I'm sure it'll help shore up the insanity defense at your next trial, along with the time your contribution to cleaning out the garage was putting shit back in the garage.
I tell the 'rents—I'm going to be cleaning out the garage. No charge, don't even have to ask me, problem? No. Do you want to help, Mom? Oh sure. She doesn't. Do you want to help, Dad? Oh sure. He doesn't.
So, here we are today. It's my day off. I have, this week, worked three nine-hour days, two eight-hour days, and one seven-hour day. I have work tomorrow, another big week because it's the Hunger Games premiere. I could kick back, but hey, why put off till tomorrow? I mean, that's what any parent would say, right? Do the job now, don't be lazy.
So, I go into the garage. We've got all kinds of shit there. Rolled-up old carpet, old blinds, a box full of shoes my siblings wore when they were kids. Stuff that no one would ever use. So I figure, fuck, this is garbage. Better line it up neatly on the curb for the garbagemen.
Keep in mind, my parents know I'm doing this. My mom is watching TV, my dad is working on a laptop, I tell them what I'm doing, I'm going in and out. They know the score. I work for hours. We've got old lamps going out, old boxes, old magazines, and I'm also sorting through it as I go so nothing valuable gets lost. Patrick Stewart's one-man show of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol: SAVED.
Job's half-done, I'm getting a glass of water (did I mention I'm doing this on the verge of a Texas summer, on my day off, for free?). Suddenly, they "realize" I'm doing stuff.
Mom: Oh no, you can't throw stuff out!
Dad: Oh no, you can't leave stuff on the curb. The garbageman doesn't come for a few days.
Like, what the fuck? I'll probably be working in a few days. I work long hours. The job's done now. All that remains to be done is leave an orderly, neat stack of garbage on the curb for the garbageman to pick up in a few days.
So, what does my dad do? He picks the garbage up. He puts it back in the garage. When I left to write this breaking news, he and my mom were talking about a bag of bottled water they'd found in the garage (possibly next to the Hyperborean Temple of The Damned Dead, and to the left of a broken chair that was sure to come in handy for someone to not sit on). "Just put it by the refrigerator."
Yeah. Drink the garage water. I'm sure it'll help shore up the insanity defense at your next trial, along with the time your contribution to cleaning out the garage was putting shit back in the garage.
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Date: 2012-03-24 11:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-26 06:59 pm (UTC)