from June 27, 2007
So I have to move. Odds are you do too. And that’s the issue for today- movers. We were told not to make the boxes “too heavy.” Too heavy? These guys are freakin’ movers! They lift stuff for a living. Then they put them down. That’s it! They don’t even carry them too far- they have dollies for that, big things with wheels. Wheels! How much easier could it get? Put the movers on wheels too? (OK, that might be dangerous. Forget it.) And let’s be honest- how many movers care about working too hard anyway? If I had any real hard stuff to move, I’d go down to 65th and 19th and pick up a couple of green-cardless Mexicans. (Not that I have anything against green-cardless Mexicans, or Mexicans in general, but look at any corner around there. That’s what it is. I call ’em as I see ’em.) Those guys work! And if you were being picked up in a van in the early morning hours by who-knows-who to do who-knows-what for who-knows-how long you’d work who-knows-how-hard too. (Actually I’d get a green card and get a real job. But I’m silly that way.)
Where was I? Movers. Grrrrr, those bastards make me sick. “Don’t make the boxes too heavy.” That really makes my jaw tight, as John Amos used to say on Good Times. (And what a great character he was, a real black role model. A father who stayed with his family through the tough times and did what was right. On TV, that really is an accomplishment. Just forget about how he was always threatening domestic abuse on his wife and kids and that guy really was someone to look up to.) Look you, (or “read you” as the case may be) I used to unload trucks for a living. My theory is, if I can lift the boxes, these so-called “professional moving professionals” can goddamn lift them too. And remember- lift with your knees, not your back.
And if you’ve been reading carefully this far, what the hell is wrong with you? Oops, I meant to type “If you’ve been reading this far, then you know what the most important part of moving is.” (I’ll fix this later.) No, it isn’t movers. It’s boxes. Yes, boxes. Stop arguing with me! It’s boxes! I said I unloaded trucks, I know what I’m talking about.
Walking around the building I saw teachers from other departments with dozens of boxes. Boxes of boxes! Big bundled bales of boxes! Big bursting bombastic bundled bales of basically bright brown broad boxes! (The power of alliteration, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you very much! I deserve it!) Well, how many boxes did I get? Two. But I was better off than some others in my department who didn’t get any. Plus I swiped two more so I got four. What do they expect me to do with four measly boxes (that I can’t make too heavy!) when I need three at least just to pack up the library I won’t need anymore. I used the four and now I still need at least six to get everything squared away. So either I get more boxes or I swipe them from math. And I have a table to move, a small table to move, a bookcase to move, some assorted chairs to move, and a big comfy high-backed leather chair (slightly worn) too move that Michelle will never get back. If these alleged “movers” (who I don’t think will be moving too hard anyway) lose a single sheet of paper there will be hell to pay. (Well, probably not, but I sure will be pissed!)
But my room is mostly ready to go. The walls are bare. The books are boxed, the stuff that needs to be moved is packed and the stuff that needs to be tossed was tossed. There’s only thing wrong with my room- the kids! There are still three days of classes left. If I can get those moving guys to do something with them then this could be pretty sweet.
Mr. Blog's Tepid Ride 
Your Comments