I may not be Ghost Rider but I'm tired, pissed off and I'm taking zero shit...savvy?
Leave it to me to decide to "take on the heavyweight." Dude on The Couch had a project idea for one weekend where he and I would just haul off all the crap in the house we didn't need. No lie, we'd go from room-to-room finding shit roomies past had left behind that we couldn't salvage for anything useful and pop it all into the back of a truck and haul it off somewhere to dump it. Great idea! We slated it for a weekend and I'd take whatever I could by night if Dude would do whatever he could by day. Of course, I'd help in the interim until he went to sleep once I woke up. Cool. Problem...Work had me doing overtime which left me going to bed late. I ended up waking up late as well.
Dude already had everydamnthing out of the back where we were looking to start. I was amazed. Thinking that he'd already hauled all that junk off, I set about honoring my part of it. Well, what I didn't know was that he had gotten the junk out of the house, alright...and into the back freakin' yard. I saw it days later thinking, "Great God, Herbert's gonna shit Texas Longhorns when he sees this!" Since then, it's rained, Dude's construction job took him out to Port Arthur and he hasn't been home the past two weekends. Not having his new cellphone digits plugged into my own communicator left us excommunicado for awhile. In short, we couldn't touch base...at all. I've had to fend off people looking for him and then...this. Trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do with all this junk was beyond my own comprehension.
Finally, a few weeks later, say, oh, Tuesday Night, I had it all figured out and it was no problem. I composed a list of things to do and had it all committed to memory. Wednesday morning I got home late (overtime again) and, after Misty's wakeup call, I set about calling people. It's no secret I let my yard go to hell but when your bills go on the up and up, your pay doesn't change to reflect a balance to that, your lawnmower's been stolen and you're barely able to eat on your own cash...yep...that means hiring the lawnmower guy takes some serious doing. Especially when you're supporting yourself and practically supporting three other people. With all the calling around done, I go to freakin sleep watching Ghost Rider...great movie by the way, I highly recommend it. When I wake up, there are two messages. One from a guy who saw my name as a grassroots contact on 911Truth.org and, of course, the one I didn't want...Herbert the landlord shitting Demonic Texas Longhorns with Satan leading the charge and Pazuzu herding the damned things over the mound behind the house.
I called him back and told him what was going on, letting him know I had it handled. Granted, the guy's been patient with me where most really wouldn't have but this dude was talking ejecting my behind in ten days if I didn't do something within that time frame. Sometimes, some people would rather shoot first and ask questions later, getting sand in their vagina but there were things that he apparently didn't get and I wasn't about to explain that to him for the umpteenth time. The guy's delusional if he thinks anyone else is gonna rent this place from him before we're done with it.
The next one I call is Dude. This was his bright idea. If he'd told me he hadn't hauled it off yet, it could have been fixed that evening with no problems. We had the truck for the whole weekend for fuck's sake! I explain it all to him. My original plan was to move the mound to the front so he'd have an easier time loading it all up into the truck (which he's supposed to secure THIS weekend and take care of this shit that he so nicely helped get me into) and get the Uber Collectors to come around for the bigger shit. Well, that's not happening, you see, that now-smaller mound is staying right where the hell it's at. I'm not doing shit else with it. Why? Check this out. This is going to explain the picture above.
The first thing to be moved was a couch that's been sitting behind the house for the past millennium. I was not made aware that a colony (planet, perhaps?) of fucking ants had settled on the couch and made it a citadel of sorts. Look, that's information that a host like me can use because if a bug bites, it's gonna bite me. Mosquitos, ants, spiders. You name it, it's gonna bite me. I'm not scared of them. I refuse to be frightened of something smaller than me that I can smash en masse. Hell no, fuck that, I'm not cool with that at all. Anyway, I was made very aware when they came out of the goddamn woodwork on one end...the end I needed to push. I had to turn the whole damned thing around. Talk about heavy. This thing was made with one of those hide-a-beds in it. Oh yeah...small task, my half-caste ass! Not only would it NOT be pushed but the ants decided not to let me take it without a fight. Despite the gloves you see me wearing in the pic, they know a ninja's weakness. These fucking things crawled into my gloves and chewed my hands up. Fucking wonderful! It still sucks even an hour or so after the fact but it pissed me off more than it hurt.
I ended up taking the chains I use for decor/hanging t-shirts off my wall and using them for what God had damned well intended. That's right...it was time to combine brute force with pure hell engineering. I looped the longest stretch of chain through the bottom of the couch and over the arm, quicklinked that to a short length of chain and quicklinked the other end to a loop that went around my trunk...over the shoulder. Goddammit, I was never a football player. I was never even a wrestler but this thing was going to learn who was the driving force and who was the inanimate object that would move by force or by choice and neither God nor man would stop me and Nature was looking at getting an ass-kicking from me if she allowed anymore damn landmarks to hang it up. It sits at the curb as we speak. I was sweating worse than Napoleon Dynamite in a house of ill repute on a Saturday night while booze flowed like water from a busted dam. Lord Genocyde - 1 Inanimate Objects - 0.
Round two consisted of a coffee table that had been falling apart and a chair. Both were heavy as they'd taken on water from the recent rains and the heat and humidity didn't do much to help that situation but I carried them over my damn head while that chain was still wrapped around me and dangled from my upper torso. I'm not sure how it may have looked to the average motorist on the street but they're probably figuring that I'm up to something deviant. This would be the only case I'd contest openly with them. Normally, I WOULD be doing something deviant, Mr. Nosy Motorist Motherfucker, but you see, I can't do that today. Nope, I'm a quasi-human beast of a tow-truck and if you don't watch your ass. I'll pierce your damn tongue with this quicklink and proceed to either pull out your tongue or drag your ass up and down this town for exercise, effectively cancelling my membership to the gym, got that?
The last item was a busted washer. My initial desire for this washer's outcome was to haul it off somewhere and use it for target practice but, time simply won't permit that. I found a place to hook the chain and Scorpion dragged it to the front. I had noticed as I was dragging it that it had lost some weight rather drastically somewhere along the way. The weight it lost was it's outer shell. I'd been dragging it's busted insides all the way to the damn curb as the shell sat in my driveway.
I've called the city workers (The Uber Collectors) to tell them what they can expect, showing a little mercy on the ant issue as my last swollen finger is almost back to normal, I've called Dude to let him know that the rest of the mound is waiting on him, I've called Herbert to find out he's shitting normally and is quite happy with the progress (goddamn well better be...I've stayed up this damn late) and I'm calling it a damn day with some Wednesday 13 "American Werewolves In London", a beer, some internet porn and then I'mma go take a shower, listen to The Secret Meeting and fucking die for eight hours. I'm curling up in my coffin and woe be unto him that steps into my crypt via phone, text or alphanumeric page.
I'll fire my underwear at the first one who tries it.
Lord Genocyde - 4 Inanimate objects - 0
Yeah, fuck 'em.