The Budget Model Doesn't Come With Segues.

Warning: The following blog entry is suitable for adults 40 and older. Perusing discretion is advised.

(Hackneyed comment is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

Well, it was a slow one at the ol' ranch today. Thankfully, we were all in good spirits. That's no mean feat when you're loading a sofa into Beatrice's 1989 Ford Almost-a-Bronco. I'm not sure why there was a Bronco II since Ford got it right the first time. This time it wasn't loaded down with sandy remnants from Nag's Head which, of course, would have been highly offensive to the "I took my grandchildren to Witch Mountain" sticker plastered masterfully over the rust hole on the rear bumper. Nor were there spare tires (with tread, please), jumper cables, or dessicated road flares to contend with. What was contentious was loading that sofa while Miss Charm School was polite enough to remind us 41 times to "be careful about the head liner". Those cigarette burn holes are arranged in a very meticulous pattern, and having a Herculon-covered couch manufactured in 1972 would so interrupt the fung shui thing she had going.

Oh, I got to be a commando this afternoon. Actually, one of my managers (Can I mention you, Brent?), two customers, and I rolled a love seat (to the uninitiated, a love seat is like extremist politicians, i.e., no middle ground but with a lot of extra padding) half of a block to their photo-and-haircut studio. It was an interesting experience: when traffic was clear, we set course due east about one click from the Times building. Then, in true SAS form, we slipped across the street one at a time on a ten meter spread. One of the customers was on point; I had rear guard. It was pretty intense for me, since I was the one rolling the "merchandise" with no weaponry or cover. I cannot tell you how easily I could have been captured. Mind you, the love seat would have made good, albeit temporary, cover against flying rounds and grenades. Fortunately, the enemy haden't been operating in that part of the block, so slipping across Salem Avenue undetected was easier going than initially anticipated. To read more about this harrowing experience, go to www.soldieroffortune.com.

>INTERMISSION: LET'S ALL GO TO THE LOBBY AND HAVE OURSELVES A SNACK!<

Why on earth did I do that?

Oh, one of the managers dared me to sniff an old garbage can we keep on the dock. Well, you know I have to do that -it's in the Guy Code. Jeff Foxworthy calls it the "courtesy sniff". He says that by sniffing something truly awful when called upon to do so, the guy who asks you will owe you a sniff at a later time. That came as very good news for me, as the odor to which I subjected myself was that of a small dead mammal. Boy does John owe me. By the way, I don't think dead animals have the right to smell sweet. It would have blasted my socks off, except that I don't wear socks at work in the summer. And no, it wasn't my shoes that smelled so bad, so don't go there with me, Jerry. If anyone remembers how truly rancid the locker room smelled back in the eighth grade, this was worse. But I believe I'm a better man for enduring the smell emanating from that old garbage can. Not just anyone could have endured such odoriferous largesse. I am now a true guy. This morning, I was merely a minor player, but when I took that sniff, I did more than honor an assistant manager's request. I established myself as a man's man. As a guy who can be counted on to sniff garbage cans anywhere at work. Why, I bet if I got a phone call at 7 pm from my boss telling me we had an emergency, and that garbage cans had to be sniffed right away, I could be at work, fully olfactorized and nasally conditioned, within 20 minutes.

Word on the street is, they're going to build the right side of our building into condos. That's going to be interesting. Barry Blueblood is going to stroll over and ask us not to make so much noise on the third or fourth floors. The condo is going to be equipped with a mini movie theater, you see, and it's bad enough having to wait in line, like common people do, to purchase the Tobblerone bar and Perrier, without having to deal with the sound of Rob loading 31 towel bars onto a metal hand cart. Simply dreadful. I've been down this road with "people of means" before. What I'm referring to by "people of means" is folks who are new to being wealthy and who haven't yet learned that money doesn't bring negative or superior attitudes. "That table is solid mohagany", stated Thomas Farquarr III, Esquire, last week. "I shall require a receipt proving that I was kind-hearted enough to donate this very precious personal posession to you indigents with true love for my fellow man. And please do remember to stay in your part of town." As it turns out, that one-hundred percent mohagany table, skillfully crafted by monks in the high ranges of Katmandu, was, in fact, plywood with a 1/32" inch mohagany applique. That's a fancy way of saying that Brother Farquarr III, Esquire, expresses his love for his fellow human 1/32 of an inch at a time.

I bet he was relieved to have gotten a receipt for that outporing.