I helped my friend Kurt clean ancient rubble and junk out of his spacious workshop on Saturday. The biggest challenge was a 100-gallon water tank, which we moved on a hand trunk, then drag-battled up a large backdoor step, then realized we could roll across the grass and into the open-ended dumpster. It was heavy and rusty and scary, and I stepped in the worst-ever cat poop along the way. Here is the dread Water Tank of Doom:
But the really scary part was the Giant Rusty Old Piece of Dismantled Fire Escape. This was a 15-foot-long ladderlike thingamajig that Kurt and I picked up all casual like, when suddenly a sharp metal rung flipped sideways and cut a perfect, terrifying flap, like the door of an Advent calendar, in the crotch of my jeans. It missed my underwear/vital interests/femoral artery by millimeters. Shaken but safe, I spent the rest of the morning thinking my fly was open, which wasn’t far off. Apologies for the gratuitous photo:
Colonial-American Word of the Day
Ape Leader: (n) an old maid: their punishment after death, for neglecting to increase and multiply, will be leading apes in hell
The Red Pen of Doom. I would recommend a specific post or two, but it’s all good.