Damn, that's heavy!

Luckily I have the good sense not to try the fridge. But as I heave the old, disgusting range out of its crevice, I realize that perhaps my smoking and heavy drinking post-funeral is, shall we say, biting me in the non-ass. How I got nice big boobies and absolutely no ass I will never understand. Except when I examine my mother's genetic kin of course. But I digress.

As I prepare for delivery of new appliances, I make a disgusting discovery. The stove was nestled into its vomitous crevice just loosely enough to allow an ungodly amount of grease and hamburger bits to travel down the cardboard cabinets. I elect not to clean them and continue heaving.

Puck, I say, you are black, I know. But get out of my way. He stands down, looking pleased with himself, and waits patiently in the hopes that I turn my back long enough for him to get at the petrified bits. I do not.

I get the stove into the middle of the room. I realize this is not the optimal placement for old, disgusting appliances, be they stoves or otherwise. I elect to drag the stove into my newly drug-around living room. I turn up the Depeche Mode. I feel hopeful.

Carmen, I say, you are tiny. We've established that. Now back off before you die an unnatural death. She looks at me suspiciously, and heads outside to explain to the neighbor's dog how much she dislikes him.

I pull the stove to the doorway. There is no door in this doorway, so perhaps there is a better term for the hole in the bi-level half-wall and whole-wall. Anyway, I, at this point, make a discovery. No amount of pulling will get this stove over the little metal carpet thing, through this opening, and onto the poo-brown carpet. Puck circles, lurks. Carmen looks upset. My optimism fades.

At this point in the story, I break to answer the question I know is haunting you: Where is Flint??? Flint, alas, is napping. The vacuuming didn't seem to disturb him, and I sense that an early awakening will not inspire that helpful mood that I need.

So, I heft the stove back into the middle of the kitchen and contemplate my situation. Dishwasher needs emptied. Finally, a job I can do! I do it. Cigarette needs smoked. Who am I to argue? And then, I turn my attention to the now-vacated crevice. The vinyl seems to have been shat upon by the stove, and is curling up around the edges. I look around and see no bridge from which to throw myself, so instead console myself with the fact that this time tomorrow, I will not be able to see it anymore.

This is not the end of the story, only the end of this post. Go do something productive, for god's sake. Breakfast was edible by the way. Flint approved. And asked for more, a request which I promptly ignored.