Alternate title: Why I should be banned from anything other than the ground level of Stan's house.

I know I've written about my past escapades at Stan's house before. Here's a new twist on an old topic. I'm assisting Stan with building a new deck in his back yard. By "assisting," I mean that I am manual labor. I unload lumber from trailers, and stack it in the backyard where I'm told. This is because I majored in graphics at Clemson, and my primary interests (other than booze, fireworks, and scantily-clad women) are literature, history, and religion (note: I am not religious, but religion fascinates me to no end, much like mirrors fascinate birds.) This does not lend itself towards making sure the deck is square, level, made of wood, or in the correct county.

My point is this: I leave the math to the others, and I do the grunt work. The beauty of my plan is this: My grunt work only lasts so long, whereas leveling and squaring figures shifts constantly. While they are adjusting numbers and deciding who went wrong where, I am drinking beer, contemplating world domination, and encouraging pregnant women to smoke.

After a long weekend of work, we finally got to the good part: laying down the actual decking. In my enthusiasm to get up there and fasten some 2 x 6's to the joists, I promptly fell off of the ladder on the top rung, launching myself backwards into space. I landed squarely on my pale white ass, hearing HL and Stan trying not to wet themselves with laughter. (Aside to HL and Stan: Thanks for making sure I was okay first, assholes.) Stan then told me I was going to be required to wear some type of safety harness whenever I was on the deck. I should probably point out that, unlike the first time I fell down the stairs at his house, I was completely sober this time. I apparently just am not fated to be more than 10 feet off of the ground in this particular area of the world.

Amuse me/console me with stories of your own clumsiness.

JT out.