It puts the lotion on its skin....
Stepdaddy always said I weren't the sharpest knife in the drawer, and aiming not to prove the man wrong, I decided to embark upon the simple task of ironing a shirt.
So, there I was minding my own business. I busily headed up to the mart of wall, that I may purchase a new iron. My ex saw fit to break my old one, so she would not have to iron my shirts anymore. A story for another time I am certain. With well over 12 different models to chose from, I wisely decide on the most manly and mighty sounding iron I could find,
DuraBrand. No fluffy bunnies were included with this model, 'twas the cheapest they sold as well.
The little hottie at the check out lane started flirting with me, must be the fact that I am purchasing a product with such a manly, masculine overtone to it, me thought. Me wonders how heavily she would have pursued had I bought a die hard battery
instead. Nodding, smiling and briskly paying for my product was the way to go, reminding myself that 17 gets ya 20 in this day and age.
So there I was ready to iron a damn shirt. I had all the necessary ingredients: A shirt, an iron, and an ironing board. I laughingly threw out the instructions, as I was certain the operation of such a product would be self evident. So there I was digging through the garbage 5 minutes later, surgically removing the now crumpled, banana peel stained instructions out
of the trash. Though I spied with my little eye many an interesting icon on the setting knob, I had not a clue what they meant. Hind sight being 20/20, I would have turned the iron away from my head, whilst "checking to see if the water squirty thingy was operational.
Looking up with my now one good eye, after receiving a blast of putrid water in the other from aforementioned action, I leisurely sat and started reading the instructions. Having a lot of difficulty trying to focus and comprehend, I realized that the fault was not all mine this time, as I was reviewing the version in Espanol. Quickly flipping the paper over, the instructionnes soon made much more sense. No problem, should take more than 5 minutes or so to whisk through this.
20 minutes later, what started out as a mere wrinkled shirt, was now wrinkled, wet, and hot to the touch. I seem to have managed to iron the wrinkles into place, rather than removing them. Eagerly spying the location for sight of the Nordic lord of mischief Loki, I was ready to leave for my big interview with the gub-ment. How could they possibly pass up a genius such as I, me thought. Tweenst the wrinkled shirt, the crooked tie, the scuffed shoes, and one good eye, I was sure to look like I belonged, and would most likely be offered a position right there on the spot.
Be sure to look out for the next installments of my interview, and hire process, as well as my triumphant return into the dating scene. Innocently enough titled I.R. Th0rn