Bob In A Box

Growing up, my dad was sort of a handy man. He was quick to fix things. Well, he was more or less quick to want to fix things (this excludes his attitude, temper, and general asinine way of thinking). But, he didn't necessarily get the job done in a timely fashion, nor did he conduct his work in the most practical way. Let's just say he was a Master Duct Taper & Caulksman who never completed his apprenticeship in Spackling. More often than not his projects were fueled by alcohol--beer specifically. With each beer, his perspective became slightly more askew. His measurements got progressively less accurate, to the point where my room looked like something out of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory--where all of the walls started closing in. "Watch your head. I know, I'm sorry. It looks like an optical illusion. It's not though. It's just poorly constructed. I know, it does look like a drunk guy did it."

My dad has 6 stages of drunkenness. And these stages of drunkenness coincide with the progression of each project. Let's call this project: Studding and Sheet Rocking. The first stage is the happy go-lucky, free-form jazz stage. "We're just going let it flow...man." The quality of workmanship is good, and it's the best it's going to get for the remainder of the day. The next stage is the lovey dovey, adult contemporary/easy listening stage. "I'm in awe of what I'm creating. I'm going to sit back and admire it." The project is still looking pretty decent. The third stage is the argumentative, punk rock on a static radio stage. "Who the hell put all of these dashes on this tape measure? Fuck it, I'm just going to wing it. Fucking fuck! That's way off. I should have not winged it. Wung it? Wanged it? Shit. I'll just make up my own word...flubbnugg. Perfect. I will no longer flubbnugg it. They say it's okay if you talk to yourself, as long as you don't answer. Isn't that right? Yup. Damnit! You just answered yourself. I can't get a word in edgewise and I'm talking to myself. That's really bad. If Abraham Lincoln was around, he'd just cut down his own tree and use that wood. And then he'd snack on some cherries. He was a great president." The fourth stage is the belligerent, politically driven, hardcore death-metal stage. "Abraham Lincoln was an asshole! I should be president. I would send all of the assholes to their own island so they can battle it out. May the biggest asshole prevail! And then I would get rid of teacher's pensions." By this point, he has created an enclosed structure and has trapped himself inside of it. The fifth stage is the reminiscent, extremely emotional, awkward, cinematic, depressing soundtrack stage. "(Excessive crying)." The sixth stage is the quiet, glazed over, super awkward, introspective stage. "Where am I right now? Who the hell built this structure? It doesn't seem structurally sound. Sound...sound. I can't hear anything except my inner voice...which isn't audible at all. Which means I can't really hear it. I can't feel it, see it, taste it, smell it. It must be a new type of sense. I discovered a new sense! I'll call it...flubbnugg."