Saturday, April 23, 2016

T is for Thrill of the Grill #atozchallenge


No.  Just no.

The following is a recounting of actual events that reiterates the point: Leave it to the professionals...

I was called upon by my pal, Johnny for a small uneventful errand.  He needed help picking up a grill  from a friend’s house to bring to his own house out in the Jersey suburbs. I asked,  'How we moving all this stuff?" 

"I got a truck."

You rented a truck?

'No, I got the bosses truck"
 
"He lent it to you?"

"I got the bosses truck."

"Does he know you have his prized  truck?"

"I’ll be by in half an hour."

I come out to discover what can only be described as a phallic moon rover of a vehicle.  It had like seventeen wheels and thirty six doors with a million gadgets and thingys.  It sat levitating, the airlock opened with a hiss and a belch of pressurized atmosphere escaped.   The paint was pristine, the chrome was pristine, the interior was pristine and the sound system was incredible.  The thing was immaculate.   This wasn’t a truck, this was the penis men wished they had.  

At the time, I drove a Neon.  Four cylinder.  132 horses.  Yup.   

With the stereo pumping, we drove in the comfort of the Death Star.  I couldn’t feel a bump, hear a sound outside or see anything for at least twenty five feet directly in front of us.  Johnny screamed over the music, “Great, huh?”   I just smiled and nodded wondering if my fillings would vibrate out of my teeth.

We went up the hill to Johnny’s friend’s place about an hour later.  His pal moved out and left him the grill and a few other yard items.  One of which was one of those assemble it yourself shed-cabinet-storage things.  I thought I’d grab that first to make room in the hallway for the grill.  I squatted, held my breath, hugged the cabinet and lifted with all my strength anticipating the heavy load.  

We stood there for a few minutes wondering if the real estate people would notice the indent in the ceiling that matched perfectly the shape of the top of the cabinet.  Apparently, the cabinet was made out of hollow plastic and lifted off the ground rather easily. 
 
We moseyed back into the house, out to the back yard where I thought we’d find one of those little Hibatchi numbers you get at the hardware store.  

ITEM:  What’s with men?  Why is there a need to surround ourselves with outlandishly garish and un-necessary items like barbecue grills that rival Mission Control during NASA’a heyday?  

I mentioned I drove a Neon, right?

We found the gas tank under the lower hull and tried to disconnect it from the mammoth underbelly.  Johnny, being pulled in by the hypnotic lure of back yard cookouts, keeping up with the Joneses and proving once and for all who has the biggest thingest tried snapping the gas line of with the tip of a screwdriver.

TIP: Sparks plus flammable gas = no eyebrows.  Learn it, love it, live it.  

I seized the line from Johnny and disconnected it before losing what’s left of my sparse brow.  The grill was incredibly heavy.  We hauled it across the yard, up the stairs, into the house, across the entire length of the house, out the front door, across the porch, down the 4000 Mayan temple steps, out to the curb and to the back of the overcompensation-mobile.  Johnny was huddled bent over the tail gate huffing and trying to say something.  I turned my back on the grill and went over to his aid. 

“Huhhh, huhhh, uhhh, heppinhonhieutz…” 

"What?"
"heppingoneyehutz, cough…”

"What, are you saying anything I need to understand?"

He pulled me down to his level by the collar and wheezed into my ear…

"I think…you’re stepping…on my nuts…"

"Oh, I thought that was a bean bag left by the dog or something.  Oh. "

Then we heard a strange scraping sound.  
 
"What is that?"

"Ummm..."   

We both looked at each other with a puzzled expression that slowly turned to confused horror.  

The grill …Is rolling…Down the hill…

"It has wheels?!  It has freaking wheels?!"

"It has wheels.  Who knew?"   

We stood there stunned watching the grill get smaller and smaller in our field of vision. It clattered and clanged and jolted it’s way down Senator street toward the intersection.   Running at full speed, I felt my pulse thunder in my neck as my heart pounded in my chest.  I didn’t think I’d make it in time.  I reached out for the runaway grill extending my fingers.  It was then that it all went batty.  There was a ping, a sudden stop and my body hitting the grill full force with an ungodly loud bang.  Blackness.

I awoke looking out at the cloudy sky when Johnny told me I hit the grill after it ran into a small pothole, tumbled over it about fifty times and together we skidded to a stop next to a fire hydrant. 
After a few minutes we gathered  several pieces of grill and my dignity and tossed them into the truck.  We had a laugh at the fact that even though we got banged up, we didn’t damage his boss's truck.  As we pulled away we heard this loud bang and metal on metal.  Real loud.  

"Did you make sure the tailgate was locked?"

Well, you know the rest…

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2 comments:

  1. I SO love your stories! Thanks for the laugh...sorry you got hurt!
    ~Katie
    TheCyborgMom

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    1. I'm so glad you like them. I always worry they are too long for attention spans. :)

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