Home Builders are Sick Sick Puppies

Here's a little something I wrote today. I hope some of you enjoy it.

Return of the Dreaded Builder's Bug

He knew that he had it. He just knew it. He was sure he had caught
it somehow. And sure enough it started happening. Something bad had
gotten into his brain. And then as he went about his daily routine
the symptoms started showing up. He was daydreaming at work. He had
trouble hearing his wife when she was talking to him on the phone.
All of a sudden he was having trouble with simple math. He was sure
he had way more money than he really did. Then he got lost on the way
home. He must of blacked out there for a second, because when he
came to, he found himself standing in the cheap Chinese import tool
store and he wasn't real clear on how he got there. And he was slow
to come out of there. Real slow. His reflexes must have been under
attack. Normally, he would have quickly swept the isles with his
eagle eyes and quickly dismissed the whole joint as un-American junk
and humphed out the door. But this time was different. This time the
Cheap Chinese water torture was working on him.

Drip Drip Drip
"Six ball-peen hammers for five bucks," a voice in his head said.
"Huh? Only five bucks? That can't be right," he protested.
Drip Drip Drip
"Jewelers tools for $2.99" somebody said in a murmured voice.
"Something's wrong here, it can't be that cheap!" he sputtered out
loud.
Drip Drip Drip
"A cool little magnet and grasping tool, only 1.99!" a hushed voice
said.
And on like this the nightmare continued.

In fact it was a good thing he went in there alone because bad things
started happening in there to his checking account as he ventured
further and further into the recesses of this Chinese tool trap. He
started fixating on a bunch of cheap work table tools that he wouldn't
have looked at twice only a year ago. "Look at the price of that 8
inch grinder! Thirty some bucks!," he mouthed to himself. "Yeah, a
wire wheel on one side…" and just then inanimate objects started
coming to life before his very eyes. A drill-mill machine jumped out
of the shadows at him as he gaped and then drooled on himself. Then
he had an out-of-body vision. He saw the machine humming along in his
garage as he machined an aluminum housing for an air cleaner. That's
when he realized he was sick. He was a sick, sick man. He only had a
few items in his hand a minute ago, a wire brush for fifty cents that
could be used on most anything around the house, and some cheap metal
files but now, suddenly his arms were full of all kinds of neat stuff.
The next thing he knew, he was pushing a cart and looking at cheap
unreliable wire welders. But it got worse. Way worse. Because
that's when the delusions started setting in. That's when he really
started talking to himself.

"I could do it," he stated to no one at all. " I could build a great
worktable out of wood and build a little airplane in the garage!"

And then the really wicked dreams started up. Horrible nightmares
about cutting rolls and rolls of fiberglass... "Wow, peaking-shears
for ten dollars!" "Throw-away cheap little brushes for epoxy...
little brushes... little brushes... !" , as the store clerk gave him
the look, shaking his head at the man who talks to tools.

****! They spotted him! They knew he had the bug and they had spotted
him. They were closing in now. They weren't even Chinese and yet
they were in on it somehow... He knew he had to get out of there...
before they locked him in the back storage room full of Styrofoam
peanuts.

When he got home, he kicked his wife's car out of the garage and
turned into the Roy character from "Close Encounters of the Third
Kind." He kept saying to himself: "It's just not quite right yet...
it's just not quite right" as he struggled with the cheap bubble level
that he got from Harbor Freight. He quibbled with his neighbors who
couldn't hold a board steady if their lives depended on it. So they
huddled together across the street and talked about him: "That crazy
sonofabitch's building a flying machine in his garage."
And that's when they started getting the bug too. They started coming
over all the time to check on his progress. He caught them flipping
through his aviation rags and fondling the plans to his airplane.
That's when it reached a fever pitch. He kept dropping tools in his
garage and running outside every time an airplane flew by. He kept
staring at lumpy clouds in the sky like a fool, picturing himself
scaling them. He kept checking Google on his computer to see if there
was any way to get into the sky faster...
And then it happened. The aliens of RAH made contact with him! A
bright light beamed down out of the sky and hit him in the face. He
smiled a goofy grin as he held up the divorce papers in the night sky
and shouted: "It's right, It's finally right! I don't want to be
cured! I want to go with you RAHians, right down the financial
drain!"

pacplyer

(And you guys thought I couldn't write non-fiction!)

I resemble that remark! Woof woof!
:)
Peter

oso true...



--
Dan D.



..
"pacplyer" wrote in message m...
Here's a little something I wrote today. I hope some of you enjoy it.

Return of the Dreaded Builder's Bug

He knew that he had it. He just knew it. He was sure he had caught
it somehow. And sure enough it started happening. Something bad had
gotten into his brain. And then as he went about his daily routine
the symptoms started showing up. He was daydreaming at work. He had
trouble hearing his wife when she was talking to him on the phone.
All of a sudden he was having trouble with simple math. He was sure
he had way more money than he really did. Then he got lost on the way
home. He must of blacked out there for a second, because when he
came to, he found himself standing in the cheap Chinese import tool
store and he wasn't real clear on how he got there. And he was slow
to come out of there. Real slow. His reflexes must have been under
attack. Normally, he would have quickly swept the isles with his
eagle eyes and quickly dismissed the whole joint as un-American junk
and humphed out the door. But this time was different. This time the
Cheap Chinese water torture was working on him.

Drip Drip Drip
"Six ball-peen hammers for five bucks," a voice in his head said.
"Huh? Only five bucks? That can't be right," he protested.
Drip Drip Drip
"Jewelers tools for $2.99" somebody said in a murmured voice.
"Something's wrong here, it can't be that cheap!" he sputtered out
loud.
Drip Drip Drip
"A cool little magnet and grasping tool, only 1.99!" a hushed voice
said.
And on like this the nightmare continued.

In fact it was a good thing he went in there alone because bad things
started happening in there to his checking account as he ventured
further and further into the recesses of this Chinese tool trap. He
started fixating on a bunch of cheap work table tools that he wouldn't
have looked at twice only a year ago. "Look at the price of that 8
inch grinder! Thirty some bucks!," he mouthed to himself. "Yeah, a
wire wheel on one side." and just then inanimate objects started
coming to life before his very eyes. A drill-mill machine jumped out
of the shadows at him as he gaped and then drooled on himself. Then
he had an out-of-body vision. He saw the machine humming along in his
garage as he machined an aluminum housing for an air cleaner. That's
when he realized he was sick. He was a sick, sick man. He only had a
few items in his hand a minute ago, a wire brush for fifty cents that
could be used on most anything around the house, and some cheap metal
files but now, suddenly his arms were full of all kinds of neat stuff.
The next thing he knew, he was pushing a cart and looking at cheap
unreliable wire welders. But it got worse. Way worse. Because
that's when the delusions started setting in. That's when he really
started talking to himself.

"I could do it," he stated to no one at all. " I could build a great
worktable out of wood and build a little airplane in the garage!"

And then the really wicked dreams started up. Horrible nightmares
about cutting rolls and rolls of fiberglass... "Wow, peaking-shears
for ten dollars!" "Throw-away cheap little brushes for epoxy...
little brushes... little brushes... !" , as the store clerk gave him
the look, shaking his head at the man who talks to tools.

****! They spotted him! They knew he had the bug and they had spotted
him. They were closing in now. They weren't even Chinese and yet
they were in on it somehow... He knew he had to get out of there...
before they locked him in the back storage room full of Styrofoam
peanuts.

When he got home, he kicked his wife's car out of the garage and
turned into the Roy character from "Close Encounters of the Third
Kind." He kept saying to himself: "It's just not quite right yet...
it's just not quite right" as he struggled with the cheap bubble level
that he got from Harbor Freight. He quibbled with his neighbors who
couldn't hold a board steady if their lives depended on it. So they
huddled together across the street and talked about him: "That crazy
sonofabitch's building a flying machine in his garage."
And that's when they started getting the bug too. They started coming
over all the time to check on his progress. He caught them flipping
through his aviation rags and fondling the plans to his airplane.
That's when it reached a fever pitch. He kept dropping tools in his
garage and running outside every time an airplane flew by. He kept
staring at lumpy clouds in the sky like a fool, picturing himself
scaling them. He kept checking Google on his computer to see if there
was any way to get into the sky faster...
And then it happened. The aliens of RAH made contact with him! A
bright light beamed down out of the sky and hit him in the face. He
smiled a goofy grin as he held up the divorce papers in the night sky
and shouted: "It's right, It's finally right! I don't want to be
cured! I want to go with you RAHians, right down the financial
drain!"

pacplyer

(And you guys thought I couldn't write non-fiction!)

Wow. Truer word were never spoken!

Fiction? I assumed it was autobiographical.

Errol Groff




On 19 Mar 2004 21:37:10 -0800, (pacplyer) wrote:

Here's a little something I wrote today. I hope some of you enjoy it.

Return of the Dreaded Builder's Bug

He knew that he had it. He just knew it. He was sure he had caught
it somehow. And sure enough it started happening. Something bad had
gotten into his brain. And then as he went about his daily routine
the symptoms started showing up. He was daydreaming at work. He had
trouble hearing his wife when she was talking to him on the phone.
All of a sudden he was having trouble with simple math. He was sure
he had way more money than he really did. Then he got lost on the way
home. He must of blacked out there for a second, because when he
came to, he found himself standing in the cheap Chinese import tool
store and he wasn't real clear on how he got there. And he was slow
to come out of there. Real slow. His reflexes must have been under
attack. Normally, he would have quickly swept the isles with his
eagle eyes and quickly dismissed the whole joint as un-American junk
and humphed out the door. But this time was different. This time the
Cheap Chinese water torture was working on him.

Drip Drip Drip
"Six ball-peen hammers for five bucks," a voice in his head said.
"Huh? Only five bucks? That can't be right," he protested.
Drip Drip Drip
"Jewelers tools for $2.99" somebody said in a murmured voice.
"Something's wrong here, it can't be that cheap!" he sputtered out
loud.
Drip Drip Drip
"A cool little magnet and grasping tool, only 1.99!" a hushed voice
said.
And on like this the nightmare continued.

In fact it was a good thing he went in there alone because bad things
started happening in there to his checking account as he ventured
further and further into the recesses of this Chinese tool trap. He
started fixating on a bunch of cheap work table tools that he wouldn't
have looked at twice only a year ago. "Look at the price of that 8
inch grinder! Thirty some bucks!," he mouthed to himself. "Yeah, a
wire wheel on one side…" and just then inanimate objects started
coming to life before his very eyes. A drill-mill machine jumped out
of the shadows at him as he gaped and then drooled on himself. Then
he had an out-of-body vision. He saw the machine humming along in his
garage as he machined an aluminum housing for an air cleaner. That's
when he realized he was sick. He was a sick, sick man. He only had a
few items in his hand a minute ago, a wire brush for fifty cents that
could be used on most anything around the house, and some cheap metal
files but now, suddenly his arms were full of all kinds of neat stuff.
The next thing he knew, he was pushing a cart and looking at cheap
unreliable wire welders. But it got worse. Way worse. Because
that's when the delusions started setting in. That's when he really
started talking to himself.

"I could do it," he stated to no one at all. " I could build a great
worktable out of wood and build a little airplane in the garage!"

And then the really wicked dreams started up. Horrible nightmares
about cutting rolls and rolls of fiberglass... "Wow, peaking-shears
for ten dollars!" "Throw-away cheap little brushes for epoxy...
little brushes... little brushes... !" , as the store clerk gave him
the look, shaking his head at the man who talks to tools.

****! They spotted him! They knew he had the bug and they had spotted
him. They were closing in now. They weren't even Chinese and yet
they were in on it somehow... He knew he had to get out of there...
before they locked him in the back storage room full of Styrofoam
peanuts.

When he got home, he kicked his wife's car out of the garage and
turned into the Roy character from "Close Encounters of the Third
Kind." He kept saying to himself: "It's just not quite right yet...
it's just not quite right" as he struggled with the cheap bubble level
that he got from Harbor Freight. He quibbled with his neighbors who
couldn't hold a board steady if their lives depended on it. So they
huddled together across the street and talked about him: "That crazy
sonofabitch's building a flying machine in his garage."
And that's when they started getting the bug too. They started coming
over all the time to check on his progress. He caught them flipping
through his aviation rags and fondling the plans to his airplane.
That's when it reached a fever pitch. He kept dropping tools in his
garage and running outside every time an airplane flew by. He kept
staring at lumpy clouds in the sky like a fool, picturing himself
scaling them. He kept checking Google on his computer to see if there
was any way to get into the sky faster...
And then it happened. The aliens of RAH made contact with him! A
bright light beamed down out of the sky and hit him in the face. He
smiled a goofy grin as he held up the divorce papers in the night sky
and shouted: "It's right, It's finally right! I don't want to be
cured! I want to go with you RAHians, right down the financial
drain!"

pacplyer

(And you guys thought I couldn't write non-fiction!)

On 19 Mar 2004 21:37:10 -0800, (pacplyer) wrote:

Here's a little something I wrote today. I hope some of you enjoy it.

Return of the Dreaded Builder's Bug

He knew that he had it. He just knew it. He was sure he had caught
it somehow. And sure enough it started happening. Something bad had
gotten into his brain. And then as he went about his daily routine

I'd wipe the tears from my eyes if my hands weren't so sticky from the
resin and I didn't have all the glass fibers in my shirt sleeves.
Then again, I guess that's OK as I'd probably stick a finger in my eye
due to lack of coordination due to lack of sleep brought on from
working on the G-III till after 5:00 AM.

My wife's gone for the week end so instead of hitting the bars and
chasing women, I say out all night... in the shop keeping my baby
company and listening to the radio with her.

Actually I didn't get in till about 6 this morning, 5:30 yesterday
morning and I was early at 4:30 the previous morning.

I think I'm gonna go take a nap. And people wonder why guys my age
take naps in the afternoon. They think it's due to age, when I was out
all night instead.

Roger Halstead (K8RI & ARRL life member)
(N833R, S# CD-2 Worlds oldest Debonair)
www.rogerhalstead.com

"pacplyer" wrote in message
m...
Here's a little something I wrote today. I hope some of you enjoy it.

Return of the Dreaded Builder's Bug
snip

You want sick?

My Europa project put me into the hospital; not one, not twice, but THREE
TIMES!

First time: standing up in the shop so long took away what little cartlidge
was left in my right hip and set me up for a total hip replacement.

Second time: same thing, left side.

Third time: I'm sanding the SuperFil off my rudder and my right shoulder
starts to feel kinda tweaky. My neck does too. Six months later, I'm
having my 6th and 7th cervical vertebrae fused, a disk removed and a
titanium replacement shoved in and bolted into place.

AND I HAVEN'T QUIT YET

Steve "One Sick Puppy" G.

Roger Halstead wrote in message . ..
On 19 Mar 2004 21:37:10 -0800, (pacplyer) wrote:

Here's a little something I wrote today. I hope some of you enjoy it.

Return of the Dreaded Builder's Bug

He knew that he had it. He just knew it. He was sure he had caught
it somehow. And sure enough it started happening. Something bad had
gotten into his brain. And then as he went about his daily routine

I'd wipe the tears from my eyes if my hands weren't so sticky from the
resin and I didn't have all the glass fibers in my shirt sleeves.
Then again, I guess that's OK as I'd probably stick a finger in my eye
due to lack of coordination due to lack of sleep brought on from
working on the G-III till after 5:00 AM.

My wife's gone for the week end so instead of hitting the bars and
chasing women, I say out all night... in the shop keeping my baby
company and listening to the radio with her.

Hmmmm. This sounds like the onset of the advanced stages of S.P.H.D.
(Sick Puppy Homebuilder Disorder.) Reffering to your inanimate pile
of fiberglass as "my baby", and then playing the radio for "her." If
I am correct in this diagnosis, then, by now your neighbors have
already been exposed and are at this very minute sitting in their
garages with the doors shut, making primative airplane engine
noises.... hoping to get beamed up by the RAH aliens...

Tsk Tsk Tsk.

This is much more serious than I at first thought. I'm going to have
to start an on-line clinic for guys like you and Steve who are, I'm
afraid to say, terminally afflicted with this most cruel of aviation
disorders.

You have my sympathies,

Dr pac M.D.

(but first the paperwork... gotta print up an impressive medical
school diploma... Who was that guy who knows how to do this....?)

(pacplyer) wrote in message . com...
Roger Halstead wrote in message . ..
On 19 Mar 2004 21:37:10 -0800, (pacplyer) wrote:

Here's a little something I wrote today. I hope some of you enjoy it.

Return of the Dreaded Builder's Bug

He knew that he had it. He just knew it. He was sure he had caught
it somehow. And sure enough it started happening. Something bad had
gotten into his brain. And then as he went about his daily routine

I'd wipe the tears from my eyes if my hands weren't so sticky from the
resin and I didn't have all the glass fibers in my shirt sleeves.
Then again, I guess that's OK as I'd probably stick a finger in my eye
due to lack of coordination due to lack of sleep brought on from
working on the G-III till after 5:00 AM.

My wife's gone for the week end so instead of hitting the bars and
chasing women, I say out all night... in the shop keeping my baby
company and listening to the radio with her.

Hmmmm. This sounds like the onset of the advanced stages of S.P.H.D.
(Sick Puppy Homebuilder Disorder.) Reffering to your inanimate pile
of fiberglass as "my baby", and then playing the radio for "her." If
I am correct in this diagnosis, then, by now your neighbors have
already been exposed and are at this very minute sitting in their
garages with the doors shut, making primative airplane engine
noises.... hoping to get beamed up by the RAH aliens...

Tsk Tsk Tsk.

This is much more serious than I at first thought. I'm going to have
to start an on-line clinic for guys like you and Steve who are, I'm
afraid to say, terminally afflicted with this most cruel of aviation
disorders.

You have my sympathies,

Dr pac M.D.

(but first the paperwork... gotta print up an impressive medical
school diploma... Who was that guy who knows how to do this....?)


Hey Doc!

Love it! love it!

When you find this guy let me know. I could use a few diploma's too!
My asian friends are obsessed with degrees. I'll show them, I'll
plater my walls with all kinds of sh*t; PHDs, MBAs...etc.

What do you think?

Bryan "the monk" Chaisone

NOT ME, BOY! NOT ME!

I've only got three more payments till I can get my right arm outta hock!

Harry

BTW: You fellers livin' near Camden, SC may get a chance to see mah flyin'
machine round 'abouts the first week of November... (Celebrate Freedom
Festival) stay tuned.