The Day That Came From Hell
Humor & Stupidity
For Everyone
Updated:
Brace yourself.
What Time Do You Call This?
As a seasoned office-dodger, you can scarcely imagine how a pre-10am start would go down. Now imagine, if you can, the following events, and ask yourself if a worse day has ever been had by anybody. I think that, by the end of this, we will both know the answer.
The day started as badly as any could. It was seven- seven am, and I was staring at the sun, which was beaming through my window, as though it was perfectly polite and reasonable. Up I got, to open the front door and let Byron take care of his suddenly-very-urgent business. He normally wakes up with me, some hours hence, so this was quite unusual. But alas, the day was barely beginning, and it was destined to get much worse, before it would get any better.
Despite his desperate plea for garden time, Byron refused to transact any business, and just stood in the doorway, preventing me from closing it to keep the icy air out.
He whined.
I did my teeth, barely able to sustain the full two-minute horse stance, as cold wind circled around my bare feet. I already had a sore throat. The radiators had been rattling all night, keeping me up, so I'd turned them off, assuming my thick duvet would keep me warm, but not factoring in Byron's new habit of stealing the cover and then sitting on it, so I can't pull it back over me.
This was the first trauma. There were to be many more.
A Nice Shower
As I gathered myself up and ventured to the kitchen to get the party started in the usual way, my sleepy body failed to react to the commands sent by my brain, which was still booting up. I tripped on Byron's chew rope and extended an arm to stabilize myself, punching the water filter and spilling most of the five-liter tank over myself and some of the electronics I actually use - mainly the printer and a backup hard drive.
This was all before my first brootane, of course, so I was far from ready to clean this mess up. I could barely figure out what a sponge was.
But wait. There's more.
What's With This Wiring?!
Being the most ridiculous time in the morning, the sunlight hadn't even reached over the garden wall, yet, and some parts of the Burt-Cave were still dark. What was a brother to do? Of course, I switched the light on. I'm not an idiot, ya know. But instead of a burst of light, all I got was a burst.
All the lights were out. I hadn't just blown a bulb, I'd fried something. I knew, because I could smell it. And if you know anything about Burtman, you know I don't never fry no nothin'. I checked the fusebox and reset the tripped breaker, but still nothing. Dead as sideways-pressed flairs.
Time To Get Dressed
If you're wondering why I was up at this heinous time, to begin with, I'll tell you; I was heading to the airport to pick up @Burtmanwoman, who had inconsiderately booked a morning arrival, like a nutty loon. And I, being a wonderful chap, had foolishly accepted this ridiculous situation, when I clearly should have demanded and required that she change the flight timetable. My fault. I see that, now.
So what next? Well, I put my jeans on, which, at that moment, had a small hole in the knee. Of course, as I pushed my leg in, my toe caught that little hole and tore it wide open, so much that my leg came out through the new hole. I was pretty unsure what had just happened, and actually wore the jeans this way for a few minutes, until Byron spotted it and started trying to pull off the flapping leg.
I corrected the jeans mishap, utilizing a nice strip of parcel tape (that's how I roll...... never mind).
Out in the street, I took Byron for a stroll, since he hadn't done his business, yet. Of course, that was when he saw his arch nemesis, Kobi.
Kobi Didn't Say A Word
He was actually a pretty chilled lad, in that particular moment. It was Byron who decided to cause trubs, this time. They take it in turns.
So there I was, pulling Byron away from a fight he started, while Kobi was looking at him like he was mentally special, and Kobis walker was looking at me in the same way, with my taped-up jeans and a toothpaste blob on my chin, which I didn't discover until I saw myself in the Burt-mirror, half an hour later. What a gimp.
Time To Hit The Road
The airport's a bit of a trek from here, so I felt a bit rushed. The plane was coming in at nine-something, and it was getting towards eight. Traffic can be a ballbag in the morning. I had no idea if I would be early or late. Best to play it safe.
I scooped Byron up into the cab, as he had decided not to jump in, like he usually does. In fact, he was pretty determined not to get in at all, no matter how. He made sure I had to push him really hard, because this makes me really happy and not at all stressed, especially when I'm up against the clock.
Once he was in his seat, I cranked Burt and flicked on the lights (24 hour rule, here). And wouldn't you know it? The left one didn't come on. Grand. I hopped out and popped the hood. Thankfully, my lights are really easy to get to, but the bulb was fine. Another wiring fault, to go with the one in the Burt-Cave? Quite possibly.
I had no choice but to deploy the cockney slap, which triggered the light to come on. Perfect bit of mechanical work, there. But I noticed the left light was now pointing at the ground. It didn't come up to the usual level. What now?! I slapped it again, but it didn't help, strangely. Next, I wiggled the cable and the lifter came into play, correcting the light angle. Thank God I'm such a premium mechanic, or I'd have never fixed that one.
Traffic? Surely Not.
With the light sorted, I took Burt out to the highway, where I realized I was almost out of fuel. This was always welcome news, just like the traffic jam that had started to form in front of us. The two together were golden. There's nothing like crawling along at walking speed for half an hour, when you're about to run out of fuel and have a plane to meet.
Somehow, though, it didn't go as badly as it could have, and I found fuel before it was too late. But the traffic just kept on being the worst jam ever, right up to the airport. When I finally arrived, I was pretty late, but luckily, the parking cyborg misread my plates, which really helped, because it meant I couldn't leave the carpark before the generous 10-minute limit expired, and I had to have a queue of antsy fuckers honking and swearing at me, because they were too stupid to move out of my way, so I could pull over and get out of theirs.
After a brief argument with the carpark nazi, I got the barrier open, and we were eventually back out on the highway. Which you'd think would be a good thing. Of course, it wasn't. Didn't you realize the kind of day this was determined to be?
The Road Of No Return
So, we were was 50km from the city and I took the exit towards home. An hour later, we were back in the same place. But how? I had only followed signs towards home and there had been hardly any exits. Yet, there, we were. Some fairly colorful language came next, followed by aggressive gas pedal stomping. But to my surprise, none of it helped. We were still there.
And guess where we were another hour later.
And then I noticed that my headlight was out, again. I pulled over again, popped the hood again, slapped it about again, and hopped back in the cab. It seemed to have done the trick. But as I took off back into the traffic, I noticed that my speedo wasn't responding. That's right. My dash clocks had given up the fight, too. Luckily, the cockney slap is a universal fix for all Ford and Dodge vans, so the clocks came back on after one or two of my finest slaps.
I got us home around 11, after stopping at Lidl for a snack. But could that have been easy? What do you think, smart pants?
The Lidl Thing
I felt like bread and hummus, which is a huge change, because I usually just buy bread and ... you know what? Never mind.
On this day, Lidl, previously a savior, became the enemy.
Since so much of supermarket stock is laced with poison, I always read the label. And, until now, that has been fundamentally facilitated by the presence of text, thereon. But no longer. Lidl has recently made the superb decision to remove the informative labels that were already there, and replace them with far less useful blank labels. Yes, that's right. Blank ones. When I asked a shop pleb about them, I was told that the details about the bread are now only available through their stupid application, which means that they now expect me to purchase a smartypants phone and install some spyware, just to read what's in the bread. No, thanks.
Since I was starving, I bought the bread I usually get, supposing that the ingredients hadn't all changed overnight. But I wasn't half sore about it. Then I moved on to the hummusarium, where I selected the finest hummus from around the world, and proceeded to stand in the queue for fifteen minutes, because the immoral bastard in front of me had decided that 'first come, first served' should be applied with vigor, despite him having an entire trolley full of food-like substances and junk, and me having a single loaf of bread and a pot of spread.
I waited, like a twat.
When I finally got to the checkout, I took on the role of jerk, as I realized I had not brought my wallet with me. That's because I woke up at seven am. Seven. Luckily, I had a few crowns in the van, but I had to slip out and get it, while the poor woman behind me cursed me for being such an insufferable douchewad. When I returned, I paid up and apologized to her, because I'm not the guy who was in front of me, and I do have some manners.
Back in the van, and not far left to go, I finally caught a break.
Lights? Working.
I delivered another activation slap to get the dash clocks online, and turned out into the last leg of traffic.
When we got back to the cave, I put the toast on, hoping to get some sanity. I skillfully avoided a grill burn, as I pulled the bastards out to butter them with the hummus I had just bought. But something was off. The fucking hummus, that's what. It stank like a fishmonger's wife and had the consistency of Byron's morning business. To say I was upset would be unlikely to do the job. The toast sat there, unbuttered, going hard, as I swore up a chain of opinions about Lidl, the enemy of man.
Later, I returned the offending hummus and was refused my right to return dodgy products, on account of "we won't be able to sell it because it's been opened", to which, my reply, "you shouldn't have sold it in the first place, on account of it being off" was met with a Peter Andre face.
Fuck it.
Back at the cave, I decided to get settled, and that's when I realized that I was on my last square of chocolate.
The Night Drew In
And as it did, the need for light returned. But since I'd blown the lights, there was nothing but a small lamp to light the whole cave. Of course, there was a backup lamp in the van, but that would mean going all the way outside to fetch it.
Being a mug, I fetched the lamp - IN THE RAIN - and installed it in the corner of the room. And do you want to guess what happened when I turned it on? Mother...
Being the backup king, I had stashed a box of new bulbs in stock room, but man. Come on.
The Last Straw
Finally, I was cozy. Byron was cozy. Burtmanwoman was cozy.
I poked my tootsies out of the bedding, and what did I see on the end of my fave Batman socks?
A tootsie. Poking out through a freshly-made, organic, fair trade hole. It was the end.
This day came straight from hell, hand delivered by Kier Starmer and Chris Witty's betentacled love child.
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