Well That'th Jutht Thwell

Every now and then at work--like when I'm sorting four by eight sheets of three-quarter inch plywood, say thirty of them, hoisting them over my head, or unloading lumber, there in my boots and my Carhartt shorts--whatever... Y'know, during those particularly sweaty, MANwork moments...

I pause, and declaim in stentorian tones (think the Duchess of Malfi, or Quentin Crisp, or Quentin Crisp portraying the Duchess of Malfi), "I... am... a homosexual.

Yeah. I know. I've got one of the butchest jobs of any gay man on the planet. Pretty extraordinary especially for a Kinsey Six like myself, not one of those over-compensating-getting-honest-with-myself-late-in-life-truck-driver types.

Yup. I've been a shirt-raising homo and proud of it since I was sixteen.

Dyed in the wool here.

So what should befall me during my final week at Wuperior Soodcraft?

It seems that somehow I sprained my wrist.

Which was somewhat problematic today when I was sorting the ol' plywood. And helping to deliver some really large cabinets (Oh man... that corner pantry floor-to-ceiling cabinet!) when I worked a delivery.

That's riiiiiight... I'm limp wristed.

I wonder if Carharrt makes work pants in fuscia?

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