My Woodsplitter Goes to Eleven: Part 1

Lets rewind about 36 hours and start the story there. I was in a place that sucks. Lets call it an airport, because that’s what it was. You might think you go to an airport to fly home. Fool! You go to an airport to get sexually assaulted by rent-a-cops with fancy uniforms and pointless demeaning jobs. Meanwhile the airline cancels your flight and pricey airport services bleed you dry.

Mass transit, in nearly all of its incarnations, sucks donkey balls. Americans can, do, and always will prefer driving because it’s unbecoming of a free man to let officials prod his nutsack in a building that charge $8 for a beer. Every flight is a spin on the “random wheel of degradation” and that day my number had been called.

I was supposed to get home Friday afternoon. Just in time to take over “man of the house” duties; which is mostly about picking up the kids after school (and feeding the dog). Mrs. Curmudgeon was out of town so my presence was mission critical. I was supposed to land with hours to spare before the kids would be retrieved from their designated Marxist indoctrination center. The plan would work even if there were a couple hours in delay.

So of course every airplane within a hundred miles of my departure was grounded big time. I cooled my heels in America’s shittiest airport while the clock ran out. I spent all day browsing my Kindle (all praise the Kindle) and eating the kind of food that belongs in a vending machine but an airport restaurant will serve to you for $17 a pop. I hate airports. So do the people who work there. So does God.

Meanwhile Mrs. Curmudgeon begged the Foxinator fill in for my delayed and therefore demonstrably useless, self. The Foxinator kindly rose to the occasion by fetching the children (the dog can fend for itself). Favors had been called in. Despite United Airlines being the villain in all this, I felt guilty.

I got home 16 hours late. I later calculated that a Boeing 747, thank to our air travel system, had averaged 43 MPH for my travels. This tells you all you need to know about mass transit.

It was far too late to disturb the Foxinator household (where the kids were happily enjoying a sleepover). I went home, greeted the dog (who was confused by the hour), and collapsed in bed. The next day, still reeling from “bad travel hangover”, I bid farewell to the dog and set off to retrieve the kids.

Here’s where things went from bad to worse. I tried to be “efficient”. If I hadn’t, the story would have stopped right there. I’ll never learn.

…

I was determined to save something positive of what had been a crap week. The Foxinator has dead trees and is delighted to let me clean them up. I like firewood. Win, win!

I tossed my chainsaw in the truck, hitched the wood splitter, and headed out. I was going to return with not only my offspring but a ton (literally) of cut and split firewood. I was going to squeeze a silver lining out of this stormcloud if it killed me.

So of course the woodsplitter had a flat. Dammit!

In my next post I’ll discuss woodsplitters in the kind of detail that gets damn near creepy. Stay tuned.