Dweebert's Two Cents

Hey! Here’s a post that my kid brother Dweebert posted to his non-existent blog! So I put it in mine without his permission, which is what I often do. I’m sure you’ll all find his perspective hella interesting. I know I did!*

Vance,

Since I don't have a public blog I'll write mine to you alone. I'll keep it short so's I don't distract you too much from your own blog.

THE JOYS OF DECONSTRUCTION

My brother Vance and I own a cabin known as Highland Estates or, more commonly, The Cabin. Rather than my describing it to you, just imagine a little shack up in the Gold Country of California with a toothless old prospectin' geezer sitting on a tumbledown porch in an old rocking chair with a rifle across his lap, chawing on a wad o' tabakky, saying things like "Dag Nabbit!" and "You jes' git!"

Now imagine that this tempting property becomes available, is purchased by an industrious young geezer (TOR) who drinks too much and decides to fix it up and add on a living room with a loft over it. Also imagine that the young geezer thinks that black electrical tape was sent down from heaven just for him.

Finally, imagine that many years have gone by and the young geezer got old and died and left the tempting property to his boys.

Being one of those boys, and being fluent in "crowbar", I know the first steps necessary to turn a hovel into a home. I know that the first thing you do is remove any vestige of the original ambiance (rocking chair, moldy couch with springs exposed, broken tin breadbox, fridge that had it's broken latch ingeniously replaced with a truck gearshift arm, sixty two mattresses with most of the stuffing removed by rats, and the numerous pieces of furniture renovated with bailing wire and duct tape) and replace them with a new, clean, moldless ambiance.

I also know that the empty spaces behind the old sheetrock do NOT make good insulation (as TOR once told me**). Empty Space makes good rat homes. Insulation makes good insulation. So, crowbar in hand, the sheetrock came down. This, of course, exposed TOR's unique concept of wiring employing globs of solder, vast amounts of black electrical tape. Some of the connections resembled the hub of a wagon wheel with cables radiating out like spokes. Vance, the home wiring whiz kid of the family (he has a book), removed all of these wagon wheels and replaced them with new ATC (almost-to-code) (even better than code, Ed.) wiring.

While Vance did wiring, I continued my own work punctuated occasionally with Vance's melodious inquiries of "What the HELL are you tearing down NOW!?" I put up with his naive caterwauls because I am aware that there are people (like Vance) who don't understand the value of deconstruction. (Oh, Vance understands the value, alright! Ed.) Observe children, the most fundamental of architects. They drop the glass of juice from a height to see the effects of distance, weight, and gravity on a known quantity. They don't pick up the pieces and try to put them together because they don't learn anything from it. Certainly there are flaws in this analogy, but I don't care. (Yadayadayada, Ed.) What counts is the fact that, without deconstruction, there can be no "renovation".

Vance is not only a wiring whiz, he is also a crackerjack plumber. I can't tell you how much I appreciate his abilities in these fields. He can wire and plumb in his sleep. This means I don't have to do it. The only problem comes from the fact that whenever there's fiberglass insulation to install, Vance always has plumbing to do. I say "Hey Vance, let's get that bedroom insulated!" and he says, "Can't. I gotta... uh... redo the plumbing in the laundry room." After a couple of hours of insulating the bedroom by myself, it occurs to me that there is no laundry room at the cabin. When I go to check on him, I find him sitting on the deck eating WheatThins and drinking whiskey. (And chortling. Ed.)

Tomorrow, I'm heading up to the cabin by myself for the weekend to get some work done. It's easier to get things done when I'm up there by myself. Alone, it takes me about ten minutes to rip down a wall. When Vance is there it takes me an hour, because he needs me to check his measurements, hand him the wire stripper, listen to his ideas for building a pole-log woodshed, make lunch, and mix his cocktails. Also, when I'm up there by myself, I can sing my favorite songs like "Dan, the Sheetrockin' Man"*** and "Danke Shoene" at the top of my lungs. I can fart, belch, and do Jimmy Stewart impressions. Why, I can even work nekkid if I want to! The sense of freedom is intoxicating!

PLEASE STAY TUNED FOR MY NEXT BLOG: "NEKKID DECONSTRUCTION"

* * * * * * * * * *

*I did a bit of necessary editing, basically just adding this niggly English-major type thingy we call “punctuation”. No changes to the text were made that altered the intended meaning, except in two particulars. The moron referred to my secret identity, so I had to insert the appropriate name. Also, changes were required to the sections where“Vance” was not portrayed fairly or in such a manner that expressed his true attributes, talents, and basic wonderfulness. In a couple of instances, statements made bordered on libel. “Vance” would never allow an unqualified person to mix his cocktails.

**The garbled syntax of this sentence would lead a reader to believe that TOR said airspace does NOT make good insulation. The sad truth is, TOR told him that airspace makes good insulation, and put this into practice.

***The perpetration of this “song” by performance, publication, or referring to it in any way (excepting this particular reference) should carry a mandatory prison sentence of no less than one year, with the additional punishment of having a hunk of fiberglass insulation wrapped around the perpetrator’s willy¹ for the duration of the sentence.

¹ No female would ever sing this excreble “song”. Suggestions are being solicited for post-operative transsexual offenders.