I'm a nutty bunny. I don't want to complain, I want to frolic.
So currently my father and I are undertaking the process of cleaning out my basement. This may seem a relatively simple chore for any other family, but not for mine. The whole thing started when my water heater broke. We had to get a new one, which means the plumber would have to be able to carry a water heater into my dad's workshop. However, the problem with this is the mountain of crap that has accumulated there over the past six years. We don't really go in that room anymore... except when we want to get rid of something, but aren't compelled to throw it away. So this poses an obvious problem when it comes to water heater instalation: how does one carry in and assemble a large water heater in a room over flowing with junk? The only solution, as it turns out, is to carry all of the junk from one end of my basement to the other. Now, throughout this entire arduous process of junk transportation, my father is boasting how great an opportunity this is for him to throw out what he doesn't need. "This is the way to do it," he assures me, "take everything out, and then only out back in the shit you need." Makes sense, right?
I am now left with a basement that consists of a large living space with a couch, chairs, ping-pong table, and TV all covered with a mountain of shit... and a work room that consists of nothing but a water heater. "Dad, you know my friends and I like to hang out in the basement during the summer. I have a TV, VCR, and Playstation all hooked up down there, as well as a ping-pong table. It also stays twenty degrees cooler down there than anywhere else. Not to mention... the three hundred pound mountain of shit is beginning to warp my ping-pong table." I plead, to seemingly no avail. "Oh, yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah, most of that shit is going to get thrown out." My father reassures me.
Eventually, my father comes to the conclusion that actually doing the chore would be less stressful than listening to me nag. I would do it myself, but when I throw out the the giant pile of rusty recessed lighting parts from our old kitchen, he'll fly into a white rage, claiming their usefulness, somehow. So the best I can do is aid him in the task, and make sure he is actually following through and not just watching Bill O'Rielly on TV while he reclines on a mountain of PVC piping. Now, the actual process goes something like this:
Mike: "Dad, I found a large pile of rusty bolts and broken screws. I'm going to throw it out."
Charlie: "No no no no! I'll find something to do with those!"
Mike: "Dad, why do you have a mound of broken wood splinters here?"
Charlie: "That's real mahogany! Don't throw that out!"
Mike: This piece isn't mahogany. And it's rotted."
Charlie: "No, that's good fire wood! Save that!"
Mike: "Dad... I found a carboard box full of taxes... you know you're only supposed to save taxes for six years, right?"
Charile: "Yeah."
Mike: "Well, this envelope says '1956.'"
Charlie: "You never know."
So on a semi-nighly basis my father and I spend several hours rearranging the contents of a bottomless pile of utterly useless shit. My dad is anal-retentive, so I think the best I can hope for is him some how putting all this shit into order, and cataloging each piece of shit in its own neatly marked cardboard box. Then maybe we can stack the shit cleanly in a corner some where, so it only takes up seven eighths of my basement rather than the entire thing. I guess the important thing is, our new water heater has plenty of room to breathe.
I am now left with a basement that consists of a large living space with a couch, chairs, ping-pong table, and TV all covered with a mountain of shit... and a work room that consists of nothing but a water heater. "Dad, you know my friends and I like to hang out in the basement during the summer. I have a TV, VCR, and Playstation all hooked up down there, as well as a ping-pong table. It also stays twenty degrees cooler down there than anywhere else. Not to mention... the three hundred pound mountain of shit is beginning to warp my ping-pong table." I plead, to seemingly no avail. "Oh, yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah, most of that shit is going to get thrown out." My father reassures me.
Eventually, my father comes to the conclusion that actually doing the chore would be less stressful than listening to me nag. I would do it myself, but when I throw out the the giant pile of rusty recessed lighting parts from our old kitchen, he'll fly into a white rage, claiming their usefulness, somehow. So the best I can do is aid him in the task, and make sure he is actually following through and not just watching Bill O'Rielly on TV while he reclines on a mountain of PVC piping. Now, the actual process goes something like this:
Mike: "Dad, I found a large pile of rusty bolts and broken screws. I'm going to throw it out."
Charlie: "No no no no! I'll find something to do with those!"
Mike: "Dad, why do you have a mound of broken wood splinters here?"
Charlie: "That's real mahogany! Don't throw that out!"
Mike: This piece isn't mahogany. And it's rotted."
Charlie: "No, that's good fire wood! Save that!"
Mike: "Dad... I found a carboard box full of taxes... you know you're only supposed to save taxes for six years, right?"
Charile: "Yeah."
Mike: "Well, this envelope says '1956.'"
Charlie: "You never know."
So on a semi-nighly basis my father and I spend several hours rearranging the contents of a bottomless pile of utterly useless shit. My dad is anal-retentive, so I think the best I can hope for is him some how putting all this shit into order, and cataloging each piece of shit in its own neatly marked cardboard box. Then maybe we can stack the shit cleanly in a corner some where, so it only takes up seven eighths of my basement rather than the entire thing. I guess the important thing is, our new water heater has plenty of room to breathe.