Dyxlesia runs rampart at Harvard!!
How do I know this?
HOW DO I KNOW THIS?!?!
Three fucking hours on Christmas Eve spent trying to put together a fucking Skeeball table for my kids proved it to me.
The wife and I had gone to Sears and bought the kids a Harvard Skeeball table for Christmas to use in the downstairs play room.
Because my kids actually PLAY down there, I had to wait until the very last minute to assemble the 5,000 pound fucking thing.
On a related note:
Dragging a 5,000 pound, 9-foot cardboard box through your muddy, snowy back yard is a wonderful vocabulary experience for your neighbor's kids.
Neighbor's kid the next day: "Daddy, what's a fucking fuckhole shitfuck cocklicking fucknut?"
Neighbor: "That would be your mother."
So, on Christmas Eve morning, my daughter had left for school and my wife was dropping my son off at Kindergarten at 9 a.m.
Wife: "He'll be back home at noon. Make sure you're done."
Me: *expletive under my breath
(she beats me)
Me: "Step 1...attach piece B22 to piece P19 using screws H3 as shown."
I look at all the pieces I've arranged on the floor.
Each piece has a small, round sticker with a part number written on it in pen.
This should be easy.
Me: "MOTHER OF CHRIST WHERE THE FUCK IS P19?!?!?"
In approximately 30 minutes, I've managed to not get past goddamn Step #1...
...because I can't find P19.
I begin the process of going through ALL the pieces, one at a time, to try to find that fucking P19.
On a related note:
If the kids don't play with this fucking thing, I shall kill them.
Almost an hour into this fun-fucking-tastic assembly adventure...
...I've laid out all of the pieces to try to find the elusive "P19."
There's one piece left.
I look at the sticker on it.
It looks like this:
Me: "PIP?!? I've been looking for PIP?!?!?"
The stupid fuckshit who was SUPPOSED to write "P19" on the sticker instead wrote something that looked like:
I looked at that thing at least 20 times in the course of almost an hour and figured:
"Naaaah...must be P11 or something...the guy's pen must have slipped."
The guy was just a fucking moron who somehow managed to write the number 9 backwards.
Although, I suppose, this is why his full time job is to write part numbers on stickers instead of checking my colon for polyps.
On the bright side, there was no instruction that said:
"Attach piece SbdZ52 to piece 6b9PZ25S."
My guess is that I'd still be there today...a decaying corpse with a skeeball in each hand and a look of:
...on my face.
"Made in the USA."
I fear for our future.
Especially in the year 200P.