01 September, 2009

How do we begin September? By lamenting the end of summer.

Yeah, you're gonna wanna play this while you read.
Yesterday I wound up getting side-tracked, which is why the end of the month stat sheet didn't show up until about 2100CDT or so. You see, it all started with cleaning the kitchen.
I took out the trash and did the dishes, then, seeing that the counters and the stove were a fucking mess, I decided to 409 the hell out of everything thus resulting in my hands covered in 409. Well, I don't like putting chemicals on my body.
My solution? Wash my hands. With dish soap.
I know, right?
At that point, I needed a glass of water, so I grabbed my water bottle out of the fridge. I polished off that quart then proceeded to refill it. Having not properly rinsed my hands (because I was going a mile a minute yesterday), my hands immediately were turned into a slippery mess and the bottle defied my grip and crashed to the floor, sending wet glass shards all over not only the tile, but the two mats on the floor as well.
I swept up what I could and then took a look at the rugs. Neither the old vacuum or Dave and Laura's vacuum has enough ass behind it to pull little glass shards out of the rug so I figured, "Well, they both look like shit anyway, and I need to wash the kitchen towels, too, why don't I throw them in the washer?" You see, I get this idea because we've thrown the bathmats in the washer tons of times.
Time goes by, as it's wont to do, and I hear the last buzzer on the washer detonate, so I go down to the basement and open the washer to find everything sitting in a huge vat of black water. So I yank everything out figuring that maybe there's just too much stuff in there for the washer to drain.
Nope. Well, I was half right. You see, even though this has never been a problem before, one of these mats decided to up and fucking disintegrate in the washing machine and all the rubber backing was now floating at the bottom of the tank.
Before we go any further, let me make it perfectly clear that I have no idea what I'm doing. If you question anything you're about to read, please refer back to this.
So I figure, "Huh." Seriously, that's all I could figure. "Huh." So I get out the duct tape and a bicycle pump and I tape the pump to the drainage hose and start pumping, figuring I'll just blast all that shit out of the drainage hose and into the tank.
Like everything else I figure, this is wrong.
Do we need to restart the music, yet?
Well, I need to get the water out of the washer so I can see what the fuck is going on in there, so I do the next, most logical thing (that comma is important; the phrase is not to be read as the second most logical thing in terms of ranking how logical it is, but "next" in this instance referring to a chronological series of events, so the upcoming solution is the next thing I do and the most logical thing I do): I disconnect all the hoses, walk the washer over to the door to the alley, and tip the sombitch over.
From there, I get a rod and start jamming out all the disintegrated rubber shit from the drainage hose. I pick the washer back up, note that the fall has popped the top front out, and run up stairs to grab a hammer to pound the sombitch back in. I walk the washer back, reconnect the hoses, and put it on the rinse cycle to get it full and then let it drain. During this time, I crack a second Killian's.
Buzzer detonates, I go down stairs, open the lid. Gray water.
So I unhook the hoses and push the washer over to the alley door like a monk pushing rocks up purgatory and tip the fucker over again. This time, the control panel comes loose and is hanging by a few cheap plastic clips. Well, I just can't be bothered with that at the moment. I yank the drainage hose off and clean that out again, then I pull off the plastic elbow connected to the drainage hose and I flush that out, then I find another hose inside the washer past the plastic elbow. So I pry the bottom off while I have the washer on its side and find that washers are deceptively simple things. Sure, there's shit that I don't understand going on inside, but I look in there and I figure I got a pretty good handle on things. Thus, I disconnect more hoses, jam away with more rods, flush the hoses out, reconnect the hoses, and attempt to put the washer upright only to remember, "Oh, yeah, I kind of broke that part," when I try to push up on the control panel. So I do what I can (or at least care to) at this point: I punch the fucker. Shit didn't fix it. Fuck it, I just get a grip somewhere else and walk the fuckin' thing back to where it goes and reconnect the water and the power and put it on rinse.
I smell something burning at this point. Fuck it. Everything down here is covered in too much water to catch on fire anyhow. That includes me. Dirt, dust, grime, disintegrated rubber silt, detergent, and water. On my clothes, all over my arms, in my hair, in my mouth, on my glasses; shit's everywhere. If something caught on fire at this point, I'd have to go back in time and slap the ever-living dog shit out of every science teacher I've ever had for not telling me that water is all of a sudden flammable. The list would also include my parents and a good deal of children's programming from PBS.

"H" is for "How the fuck you gonna play me like that?"
I put the sombitch on rinse, grab my third Killian's, hear the shit go into spin, check the drainage hose, water's running clear, COOL. My job is fucking done.
Except that I now have a bunch of disintegrated rubber silt all over the basement floor. So I grab the push broom and start shuffle boarding the shit to the alley door when it finally happens. The unavoidable.

Somewhere, this man is laughing harder than he has all week. At my expense. Again.
You see, the Old Man is a mechanic. He'll probably tell you, especially after forty years in the trade, that when you work on machines that one thing and one thing only is completely unavoidable: Your shit's going to tore up. Something is going to get cut, ripped, or severed and you're going to bleed. Doesn't matter what precautions you've taken, what safety gear you're wearing, or the amount of forethought you put into your actions; you aint fixed shit until you bleed all over the damned place. Somehow, I thought I had defied this one hundred percent probability.
It's whilst sweeping the floor that I feel it. Of all the dumbest things that could have occurred: I caught the cuticle of my right middle finger on my wallet chain.
The skin flapped off and a bead of blood arose from the offending perforation. I ran upstairs and grabbed a band-aid, cursing things the entire time. Why couldn't I have been injured in a more bad assed fashion? Like getting caught in the washer motor or something? Even if that would have meant being too stump dumb to disconnect power (and the Old Man would have my ass if that were the case; you always disconnect power before cracking open a machine), at least it wouldn't have been as lame as getting my finger caught in my wallet chain. Earlier, I had wanted to blame the cat getting under foot for my dropping of the bottle but, in truth, my hands were simply slippery. Anyhow, the washer's fixed.
Let's just recap:
I clean the kitchen → my hands get covered in soap → I lose my grip on the water bottle → wet broken glass gets in the rugs → I wash the rugs → one of the rugs disintegrates → the washer is clogged → I spend all morning declogging the washer → I clean up the mess I made → I tear open my flesh.
Long walk to go a short distance.

Last night's trip into the Land of Nod involved the end of the world, with the bay I live on being destroyed. What was left of humanity fell under the martial rule of a tyrannical facist paramilitary state. The rebellion, which I was a part of, was made up almost exclusively by murderous zombies, all of which were identified by the red, triangular flag emblems silk-screened onto the left thigh of their pants. The goal was chiefly to demand access back into the bay. Then Obama showed up dressed like a down-home good ol' boy and knocked back a beer with me while I reassured him that I understood that he wasn't pushing for health care reform, but health insurance reform.

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