It’s been a meloncholy day for poor Steve. My computer seems to be broken, which for the average passerby would seem like “not that big a deal…suck it up you overweight computer nerd” but to me it’s like “my life is meaningless and I want to join a cult now.”
For a computer junkie like myself, spending the entire day fixing my computer is a hard row to hoe. You might think, “well, if you like computers so much, wouldn’t you relish a day spent with your inanimate lover?” (well, you would say that if you were British because only British people say relish) That’s not quite accurate. It’s like if you really like interior design but hate the menial task of painting. Or you really like going out with women who don’t drool on themselves but you hate the hassle and expense of enrolling your bumpkin dates in charm school. I really like computers but only when they work and I don’t have to fix them.
Now I should preface this next paragraph with the information that 2/3′s of chimpsahoy just moved into a new house. We’ve never met one of the roomates, descriptively named “Big Dave.” Today, Big Dave was supposed to move into the house.
Anyway, my day is blowing pretty hardcore and then I get a phone call from a strange out of state number. Guess who it is? None other than our mystery roommate Dave’s dad saying (in saucy Louisiana drawl), “We need some strapping young men to help us move some furniture to your place.” I demurely whimpered, “But sir, I’m all alone at the apartment. Why don’t I wait until someone comes home to help?” Big Dave’s pop answers quickly, as if such a response were anticipated, “Well, we got me, my wife, and you…we should be all set.” Being the non-confrontational man-boy that I am, I comply and go about my business. I call him back half an hour later and ask if the stuff would fit in my truck…after all, it has a bed cover on it. He says it won’t and that he’ll take care of it with plan b. Right on! I’m ecstatic because I both did the right thing and got out of hard labor.
Fast forward a couple hours and several phone calls consisting of “Wait, which street? My left or yours?” and Big Dave’s parents arrive at our house. I lift the latch and the truck door shudders open. Inside is all of Dave’s stuff. So much bitterness as I move a strange, large, absentee man’s furniture. “Dave’s in Idaho,” the parents chortle. I fire mind bullets at Dave’s things.
As Dave’s parents leave, jovial and southern, I mention that I had never met Big Dave. A dark ominous cloud manifests in the room and swirls menacingly about Big Dave’s dad’s head:
“Well, you see…um…David is a really nice boy.” I cringed at the dreadful and gratuitous emphasis of “really.” “He’s a real funny and he’d give you the shirt right off his back. The only thing is…well…um…David’s a little scatterbrained.” Dave’s mother slowly nods, knowingly. I reply, “Um, that’s not really what I wanted to hear.” They mutter something that sounds like they were really, really, truly sorry and they shuffle out the door, slam the truck doors, and take off much faster than I thought a U-haul truck could.
I weep for the future.