Ham, wine, Chinese and cheese

So the movers are coming in the morning. No big deal. A rather large percentage of my friends in the area have hurt their backs significantly in the new century. And I'm more than happy to pump a little money into the great American economy (China ain't getting the jump on us if I have anything to do with it).

But I was feeling guilty about not being able to pack my shit myself, especially considering I never fully unpacked when I moved into this place. Meaning there wasn't a whole lot to do. Part of the reason is that I ran out of boxes, which is a testament to how much I've accumulated over the last nine months, because I kept all of my boxes from the last move. And let's be frank, where's a guy gonna find empty boxes in this day and age?

The guilt was starting to get to me, and I thought about plucking a few boxes from my weekly anti-war Box Bonfire Jamboree, but damn it if I'm not just really, really anti-war. Every box goes a long way to getting us out of Iraq.

Just when I thought the intensity of the guilt would crush me like that neighbor kid's leg when he thought he'd found the perfect hide 'n' seek hiding place under my car. It was partly my fault. I was so hungover that I thought it was a weekday and that I was late for work. So I ignored the bump and the screams as I sped off into the afternoon.

Shit, let me start over. Just when I thought the intensity of the guilt would crush me, the good lord came down from heaven above and kung-fu kicked me square in the lower back. On that day, I truly believed. Because now I could really ham up the injury so the movers wouldn't think I'm a spoiled richie rich. Besides, I thought I'd set out wine and cheeses for refreshments to show my appreciation for their work. And not the cheap stuff either. Oh mercy, no. I feel like I need to show my peers that I am capable of fraternizing with the help.

Gotta go. My driver has promised to take me to a real blue-collar bar like he goes to.