Robots, Tall Places, and Violent Men

At work today I was reminded of the time Scott and I built a bunk-bed from parts made of wood. My boss and I were doing the same thing, except instead of pieces of wood we had incredibly heavy steel parts, and instead of it being a bed it was an enormous industrial robot. Here is the robot we were building today:

THIS IS GUY STUFF. Once when Andy and I were destroying a desk with a hatchet i said, “This is guy stuff. Most of the time when I do guy stuff with my REAL DAD he gets real mad and starts swearin’ up a storm.” We had a great laugh. Building bunk beds and destroying desks with hatchets are times for jokes, but in the presence of an industrial robot, THERE CAN BE NO JOKES. There was only an enormous binder of instructions and several bags full with metal parts. Then I was sent on an unrelated mission to climb a ladder up to the high up storage area. I was to retrieve “Some Peanuts”. I had a hard time locating these peanuts. This was because I thought he was referring to the food kind. I like peanuts and can spot them from 100 km away. He did not mean the food kind. They were the packing kind. BOY WAS I RED IN THE FACE.

Not with embarassment, mind you. Being up high like that makes me nervous. It reminded me of the time I worked at the office supply store called “Staples” for about a week. I was forced to wear a red polo shirt and climb on a ladder up to the high parts of the store where I could find expensive flat-screen monitors. I was to carry them down for customers who watched me eagerly from below. I like climbing high places like light houses and big glass sky-scrapers. Being up high like that gives me a feeling of freedom. OH, another tall place i like is called “The Italian Trapeese” which is a ride at Dorney Park. But being up that high in Staples, while handling an expensive peice of equipment while doughy suburbanites look on with a sense of wonder thinking, “What is that moron doing up there?”, that made me feel nervous.

I am typing this from my parents attic. Downstairs my father is in the shower and my mother is doing laundry. The dog has peed on my father’s sleeping bag. I could hear him in the shower when I went downstairs. He said, “FUCKING, SHIT, MOTHERFUCKING, COCK SUCKING HOUSE”, going on and on like that as though he were reading a grocery list of PODDY MOUTH STUFF. I learned at a very young age to avoid this walking volcano he frequently becomes. The thought of a Cock Sucking House is funny and I am sure there is a market for such pornography.
I say this for the sake of all of you reading this who happen to be in the pornography industry. YOU’D BETTER GET TO WORK AND I MEAN ‘GET TO WORK’ IN BOTH THE LITERAL AND FIGURATIVE SENSE HAH HAH HAH.

(Search Results for “Cocksucking House”)