And now I understand why people snap and open fire on the public
Really, I do.
Ever have one of those days/evenings/nights when you you just revel in the thought of opening fire on any and everything that annoys you. I mean really going all-bad-Hollywood-movie-hog and just shooting up the place?
Yeah, I had that.
Granted, I'm the biggest puss on the planet so no one was ever in danger of more than, MAYBE, hearing a muffled yell coming from inside my house but DAMN if I didn't fantasize about going ape shit. Real wrath of Hulk type shit.
Like most breaks with reality, it started simply enough.
I couldn't get my bike trainer to work. Really, it's just about the simplest machine on the planet and my dumb pudding self could NOT get it to work. Joking aside, I sat on my fat ass for TWENTY MINUTES turning this damn knob and NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING (the knob is supposed to bring the trainer wheel up to the bike wheel, so you can--as would be expected, ride your bike with some resistance--you know, like you'd expect the trainer to work).
My master plan was simple. Set up the trainer and bike while I watched an episode of "Six Fee Under" (yeah, I'm painfully behind the cool curve--this should come as on surprise to anyone).
What happened was:
I got pissed.
I sent a text to my wife telling him I hated the bike trainer and gave up on it.
I sat on my fat ass and watched multiple episodes of "Six Feet Under" while sipping hard cider. (the first of which was interrupted by the racket of my trashy neighbors' car stereo, jacked to the max volume--really, if you want to blast your music, invest a fifty spot and buy a half way decent stereo that will actually pick up the radio station you're trying to hear, honestly).
After five ciders, I was no longer pissed.
Somewhere between cider five and six (six is my cutoff, at least now while my stereo is out of commission--when it's working all bets are off since solo fat girl dance party makes me lose track of my cider consumption) my wife returned home and, after approximately two nano-seconds of examining the trainer, figured out what the problem was and fixed it.
So now my trainer works (yes, I gave it a test ride, slightly buzzed and in my pjs and stocking feet--nice resistance, totally working as it should, dumb piece of crap) and my wife realizes (yet again) what a nut job he's saddled with FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.
Bless his soul.
Ever have one of those days/evenings/nights when you you just revel in the thought of opening fire on any and everything that annoys you. I mean really going all-bad-Hollywood-movie-hog and just shooting up the place?
Yeah, I had that.
Granted, I'm the biggest puss on the planet so no one was ever in danger of more than, MAYBE, hearing a muffled yell coming from inside my house but DAMN if I didn't fantasize about going ape shit. Real wrath of Hulk type shit.
Like most breaks with reality, it started simply enough.
I couldn't get my bike trainer to work. Really, it's just about the simplest machine on the planet and my dumb pudding self could NOT get it to work. Joking aside, I sat on my fat ass for TWENTY MINUTES turning this damn knob and NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING (the knob is supposed to bring the trainer wheel up to the bike wheel, so you can--as would be expected, ride your bike with some resistance--you know, like you'd expect the trainer to work).
My master plan was simple. Set up the trainer and bike while I watched an episode of "Six Fee Under" (yeah, I'm painfully behind the cool curve--this should come as on surprise to anyone).
What happened was:
I got pissed.
I sent a text to my wife telling him I hated the bike trainer and gave up on it.
I sat on my fat ass and watched multiple episodes of "Six Feet Under" while sipping hard cider. (the first of which was interrupted by the racket of my trashy neighbors' car stereo, jacked to the max volume--really, if you want to blast your music, invest a fifty spot and buy a half way decent stereo that will actually pick up the radio station you're trying to hear, honestly).
After five ciders, I was no longer pissed.
Somewhere between cider five and six (six is my cutoff, at least now while my stereo is out of commission--when it's working all bets are off since solo fat girl dance party makes me lose track of my cider consumption) my wife returned home and, after approximately two nano-seconds of examining the trainer, figured out what the problem was and fixed it.
So now my trainer works (yes, I gave it a test ride, slightly buzzed and in my pjs and stocking feet--nice resistance, totally working as it should, dumb piece of crap) and my wife realizes (yet again) what a nut job he's saddled with FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.
Bless his soul.