I'm pissed off.
Don't know who to tell. The live-in help is busy watching Paul Simon and Willie Nelson sing a duet on the other computer. She's toast, probably for the rest of the weekend. So I'm telling you.
Back in the spring I took the generator in to Hastie's Small Engines for a tune-up. Probably didn't need one, but I'd forgotten (see Alzheimer story above) which way to twiddle the knobs to get it going. So I spend a hundred bucks on the tune-up, and put the generator back in the woodshed.
The other day I figure, winter's on its way, better make sure the generator works. After all, in a power-down situation it's the generator that keeps us alive. I go in the woodshed, scope out the generator, and realize that it won't be keeping us alive this winter.
You see, when we had the big dog cull earlier in the year, and we got the new puppy, Lucy, we put her in the woodshed. Lucy has chewed all the knobs off the generator. Chewed off the pull-cord too. The generator is fucked.
Back to Hastie's I guess. They must make a lot of money off retards like me.
Tried talking to the farm manager about it. "Oh, she's going through the chewing phase," she says.
No shit.
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