Fear and Loathing in the Attic

Attic spelunker.

Grab a flashlight. You’re going to need it. We are about to venture into the unknown-a haunted landscape of amorphous shapes, shadows and oil paintings of old men that absorb a year of your youth every time you eat a steak and cheese calzone. No, I’m not talking about the Men’s Locker Room of the local YMCA, I’m talking about…[scary music]…the…[violin string plucks]…ATTIC! Sure, being scared of the attic is nothing new, but now that I am a homeowner, with explicit instructions – handed down from upon high by Royale Decree of Wife, mind you – to move about a hundred boxes up there so that we can actually use our basement, I’m seeing the creepiness of attics in a whole knew light. Or lack thereof. What’s worse, our attic comes with one of those insulating box caps that fits snugly over the ladder housing, so every time I want to gain access to that House of Horrors I feel like I’m an astronaut emerging from the vacuum bay of their space pod onto the barren wasteland of Planet Attica. This planet is inhabited by a terrible fungus that bears a striking resemblance to insulation. It also maybe probably definitely has ghosts. Seriously, removing that box cap is like removing the lid off a silver platter which may or may not contain a giant nest of spiders. Maybe instead of this dinky flashlight I should invest in something a little more substantial. Like a flamethrower, for instance.

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The Making of Boxes

Experts only.

I’m a boxer. Not the punchy-punch kind, or the dog breed, for that matter. No, I am a humble artisan skilled in the timeless trade of cardboard box assembly. Need a box put together in a fairly timely fashion? I’m your man. See, Wife and I are moving across the country, so the last few days have been one big box-making party (minus, you know, the fun). Here’s how it all goes down: (1) Wife hands me a flattened box; (2) I assemble it; (3) Repeat. Hey, I never said this was glamorous work! If you’re looking for some big, sexy, extreme box-making show, you’ve come to the wrong place. I hear there’s a bunch of punks who do that behind the CVS. They smoke cigarettes and listen to hop-hop and “just, like, make boxes, man”  – Ugh, youth today. No respect for packing tape – Listen, if you want to do some real, serious, no-frills box making, you know where I live (at least for the next seven days). I can show you techniques you didn’t even think were possible. You know that awesome flap-tuck maneuver you always see the professional movers use, but are too afraid to try yourself because you might wind up marginally embarrassed? I invented that. I was also the first person to use packing peanuts, only I use real peanut shells. That’s right: I’m a purist. And trust me, unlimited peanuts is just one of the many dozens of perks that comes with being a professional boxer. There’s also the increased storage capacity, the groupies (Wife and Cat), the, uh… Well, alright, I guess there are only three perks.