Do What?

You can fit four televisions, one sofa, a desk, two patio chairs, a four by nine picture frame, a filing cabinet, and twenty-one bags of grout into a truck if you do it right.  I discovered that this afternoon when Yuri, a transplant from the former Russian province of Georgia, asked me, in his best broken English (that’s okay, Yuri. I’m not a big fan of definite articles either) if we might “please to put items in truck for good job”. Well, heck yeah, friend. We’ll do that and even toss in a jacuzzi or two if it will help you master a few adjectives.

(Political incorrectness of the evening is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

Mike was off today. That meant Jimmy had to step up -and step up he did. In fact, when we were loading a sliding door and frame into Yuri’s truck, Jimmy stepped right up into the door with his left leg, thereby hopping around holding his shin and doing his part to summon up much needed rain clouds for the valley. Now, I couldn’t make out what he was muttering while putting on the best floor show we’ve had since the time I dropped a thirty six by eighty inch exterior door on my right foot in spring of 2008 (ask me about the toes on that foot -now they splay out like political action committees desperately seeking slush funds) , but let me tell you I thought I heard something regarding volcanoes and a virgin named Conasatta. Then again, my hearing has been acting oddly lately, so who knows?

But we aren’t the only ones to suffer misfortune on the old ranch. No siree. This afternoon one of our customers accidentally backed into a phone pole on the edge of our property and promptly shattered a tail light and wiped out an entire quarter panel. When I clocked in this morning, I never expected to be on the front row at Darlington. >thunk< >snap< aren’t the kinds of sounds you ever want to hear in any parking lot. Meanwhile, Jerry and Vern, smoothly gliding around him en route  to Harbor Freight to buy new lawn mower blades and some beef jerky, slowed to see the carnage, thereby causing Madge (in curlers and a dangling Doral) to shout from her newly purchased ’97 Pontiac OilGlut, “LEARN HOW TO DRIVE!”, which drew the attention of one of Roanoke’s Finest, and which prompted delayed gales of laughter from those of us in attendance.

The latter half of the preceding paragraph was embellished for your reading pleasure, and in no way infringes upon the copyright of the truth. But boy was it about to become really fascinating.

I’m pretty sure more stuff was going to go here, but I decided to sneak out to Taco Bell. See you soon.