An Open Letter to Adam McArthur.
Hey there big guy. It's Christmas again and we're remembering back to when you and your South African bride lived in our basement, two years ago. I remember going for coffee - my 5 and a half foot self, and you, just a frog's hair under seven freakish feet tall. I rode with the seat slid so far forward and you rode with it slid so far back that it looked like I was your chauffeur.
Anyway, those months you all lived in the basement, you hauled a couch down there. Couchzilla, to be exact. It was huge. It actually came from the Titanic, where it saved hundreds of lives as people climbed on it's floating frame in the icy waters. They all sat on this behemoth floating couch until help picked them up. It's that big.
If you remember, you and another guy of neandertholic size wrestled with this couch like two drunks wrestling a live tuna - and that was go get it DOWNstairs, with gravity on your side. Of course, when you left, you took your wife, your embryonic son, your stereo and your crock pot, but you left that couch.
Well, buddy, it was time for that couch to go bye-bye. Who did I have to help me? My three sons, who, if weighed together come in at 30 lb less than your leg. Drastic times call for drastic measures, and drastic measures are made up of drastic people, so we did what needed to be done.
We chain sawed and hacked that baby into pieces and it now rests at the curb, because it's Bulky Trash night.
And that's a whole 'nother post, my friend.