ImageNot sure if you can really tell from that photo, but those are my dry cracked hands after the move.  Now you have to understand, I work with computers all day.  I normally have the hands of a chubby rapist priest.  Soft, supple, smooth.  This WILL NOT DO.  🙂  I need some Eucerin.  And a Mani.  A Manny Mani.  Ok, fuck it, I could use a Pedi too.  Sometimes you just want to be pampered!  Amirite Bros?  Bro-dudes?  Buuuuuuuuddies?  No?  


Well fine.  Fuck you.  I’ll be the only one that feels pretty and has cornsilk toenails.  Won’t YOU all feel left out.  Won’t you?



This is me just before we left my father’s old apartment en route to the new one.  That’s my “ERMERGHERD ERV CRRIED SR MRCH” face. Kinda sexy tho.  

To my sister’s credit (and my father’s) the place was pretty well packed.  And she brought friends (thanks guys!) so it wasn’t just she and I this time.  That made things go way more smoothly. 

I’m a beast when it comes to moving.  Point me at a pile of stuff and I won’t stop until it’s safely entrucked.  Encarred.  


Or thrown haphazardly in the back of Buttercup.  Something like that.  My brother in law said at one point “I want you here EVERY time someone moves.”  That’s the kind of mover *I* am.

You never realize how much shit you have until you move.  Then suddenly you have more shit than Sir Shit of Shittown.  And as you know, Shittown is the shittiest of the towns that are full of shit.  They are full of more shit than Congress.  And as you know there’s so much shit there that you can see it from space.  Space shit!  

For now, I’m out of shit.  To write.  I’m tired.  My knees feel like the Tin Man’s before Dorothy finds him and lubes him up.  Every joint and muscle hurts.  I don’t want to KNOW what I’m going to feel like when I wake up tomorrow.  (And by tomorrow I mean at 2am, history being a teacher.)  But I’m sure I’ll be back to bitch about it tomorrow.   A couple more pictures before I go.



The Beams at the new apartment.  They were repurposed from an old ship.  But built for midgets.  The doorways are the same height.  Luckily my dad is shorter than I am. If I lived there I would have more concussions than your average NFL wide receiver.  

ImageHere is my sister and I when we were wee ones.  I’m guessing I was 4 and a half and she was about six months. 



After all was said and done, Brian was as tired as I was.


One Response to AfterM*A*T*H*…

  1. mom says:

    Good job Mike! Mom

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