Fat People Do Home Projects

Cigarette in hand my beloved wife held the ladder and my life in her hands between bouts of scattered showers today. Gutters filled with natures debris and what looked like potted plants and miniature bonsai trees. A procrastination of the worst kind. I had cleaned them out once in the not so recent past. With the ladder, or what I call the Russian roulette of safety devices underneath my wet tennis shoes, I attempted to remove gunk with assorted household items and tools. With each step I read the words WEIGHT LIMIT 225 POUNDS on the ladder wondering if each step would be my last. My mind kept wandering as I pictured the step giving way in a movie coreographed stunt man slow motion account, my spatuala and spoon tossing into the distance as I land on my wife crushing her as her cigarette burned a hole into my retna.

I pictured my first order of business after leaving the hospital was to pay Home Depot a little visit. I would limp into the store pushing my mangeled wife in a wheelbarrow covered in mulch and mud, bent cigarette and all. My eye patch would obscure my vision so I would need to be carefull about tripping on her IV's and Oxygen tubing. I would place the scap metal (once called a ladder) at the managers feet and inquire as to why the 6 foot step ladders only hold 225 pounds. I am thinking this as I am on the ladder and a friend drives by and both of us take our hands off the ladder to wave as she honks.