Now that I have a new Home Office lined up, I’ve decided to hire a moving company. After the searing agony and broken friendships that my last address change caused me, I resolved to never again carry anything heavier than twenty-five pounds. And frankly, I don’t figure on having to carry even that much around if my recent temporary shift to light beer has the right effect on my liver.
Choosing a mover is like hiring a proctologist. You know you need the help, because if you try the job yourself, you’re gonna wind up ruptured. It’s expensive, because it’s not cheap to convince a stranger to do that kind of dirty work. And it’s hard to convince your friends to do it, because you’re going to have to buy them a bunch of beer before they’ll even think about trying it, and even then, you know something important’s gonna wind up broken. And ultimately, no matter what you decide, you’re taking it in the ass.
No mover’s estimating less than fifteen hundred clams to move my one-bedroom full of secondhand furniture thirty miles across the landscape. But somehow, I find myself leaning toward the more expensive company, because my instinct is that since they’re charging more, they’ll be more careful. All the while, I’m forgetting that the last person to help me move was Ken MacDonald, who didn’t ask for a nickel when he entered my new apartment and announced: “In order to save the La-Z-Boy, it was necessary to destroy it.”
One of these fucking moving companies wanted to charge me two hundred and fifty dollars an hour, per mover. I could go to Kneeland Street in Boston and hire a girl to suck my dick for an hour for half that.
Which gave me an idea.
“Yep, bend over the end of that couch, honey… now pick it up. Now you and Ambyr bring it down to the truck. And then drive it up Route 95 to exit 15. Don’t look at me like that; it’s the only way I can get off! And when you get there? Bitch better have my DVDs. Not some of my DVDs; all my DVDs.” I’ll save thousands hiring whores to haul my shit around.
And ironically, now all my friends want to help me move.
[tags]moving, real estate, movers, whores, prostitution, dark humor[/tags]
When we moved within our last home town, in another state, it rocked because my husband was in the volunteer fire department AND his father lined up a HUGE truck, and the whole fire department moved us. Then, we move out of state to this rental that is up 18 steps and on a 16% grade. While we’re here, we buy this mammoth pillow top mattress so when we DO buy a house we’re totally fucked, as it is up on the third floor in a house built in 1920. We have three kids now instead of two, kids have too much shit these days. All I had were like the three Legos that my mother hadn’t vacuumed up and a dirty Snoopy. My girls have this My Little Pony Extraveganza World and Littlest Pet Shopalooza and My Scene and American Girls and Polly Pockets and Build a Bears. WTF?