In all the happy holiday hubbabaloo, my ass said unto me, “Rob, I have little to be thankful for.”
In all fairness, it does get the shit end of the skid mark quite a bit, however I would like to think it has a decidedly better time than most asses. Spacious interior, adequate maintenance, and protection from foreign intrusion are all benefits that my ass receives with nary a complaint from me, but when it finally said that seating in the Spectre household was substandard, well, I had to put the folding chair away and agree.
I said to my ass, “Hearten, for this day you will have a throne fit for your magnitude” and departed forthwith to ye Olde Office Maxxe for sweet, sweet relief. After an extensive and carefully observed audition process, I had my selection in hand. Sadly, it seemed that the chair for which my ass was so fond would not be the one I could take home. Those wily sharks at Office Max have things called “display models” that are functional and put together, whereas the one at the front counter that you exchange your ticket for is in a box in a million unintelligible pieces.
I resolved that this could pass. After all, I’m a reasonably intelligent young man, and have been known to assemble a Star Destroyer or two back in the day. I grabbed a little beer, which would be my metric by which to gauge the effeciency of my construction. Sadly, I would pay a high price for my hubris.
After about 5 beers and a lot of head scratching, I found the directions. After unassembling the Tripodal I had created, I offered a beer to the chick that lives upstairs. It took her far fewer to complete.