We’re in the dreaded NFL offseason. There’s still no real football for months, or maybe even longer. You’re hurt. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, hating things is what we do best, which is why we have the recurring This Week In F–k You series, to soothe your white hot anger. This week: NordicTracks.
For the past few months, I’ve been working part-time for a moving company, mostly because President Obama’s Dick Joke Job Creation Act hasn’t been as fruitful as promised. It’s all right for a side job, albeit it suffers from the same weakness that all gigs in the service industry do: you have to deal firsthand with customers. And in large part, moving customers suck because:
– They tip poorly or not at all [Sorry, offering as gratuity a sixer of some piss beer like Miller Light isn’t charming, much less acceptable]
– They seldom pack [“Hey, I left all our clothes in that 400-pound pine dresser. That’s okay, right? You can take that as is?”]
– They are occasionally gay men who leave pornography in plain view.
– Some are husbands who get insecure that other men have to carry their shit, so they try too hard to help out, thus fucking things up in the process.
– They assemble IKEA armoires on the top floor of a three-floor townhouse with narrow-ass staircases. When presented with the reality that said armoire cannot possibly make it down said narrow-ass staircase with walls and armoire intact, they become defiant and insist you invoke some sort of blue-collar wizardry to make it happen. DIE ENTITLED YUPPIE SCUM!
– And worst of all, some of them own NordicTracks.
Fuck NordicTracks. Fuck them in their heavy, awkward, dust-encrusted hole of healthy minded resolutions past. I’d rather carry 10,000 grand pianos up a cliff face than haul another elliptical through someone’s house. The people who manufacture NordicTracks like to believe they’re on your side, dear mover, as many of these abominations have tiny wheels on the bottom. Of course, these wheels are positioned in such a way that they never do anything. Or, if they do work [never on carpet], they’re located on the slimmer side of the device, forcing you to have to support all of the object’s weight anyway.
I could deal with all this if I’d ever moved a treadmill or elliptical that I was sure had seen regular use. This has yet to happen. Why? Because the type of people who feel they need this type of equipment in their home think they’re too good or too smart to be suckered into getting a gym membership. “They’ll lock me into a two-year deal when all I want is some light cardio.” The misguided rich asshole soon discovers how difficult it is to work out in their home, their place of leisure and relaxation. Also, that the gym has far superior equipment than the $800 piece of shit they bought for their basement. That’s probably giving some of them too much credit; just as likely the workout machine is just another product of the crushing need to add one more expensive and ultimately useless home furnishing just because they can.
MOVE MY GIANT DUSTY MISSHAPEN ROCK OF LONG-ABANDONED GOOD INTENTIONS, PACK DOG! I NEED MY MECHANIZED ORNAMENT OF EXCESS!
But wait, it gets worse! Not only are NordicTracks weirdly shaped fucking abortions that you can’t pack around in the truck, but they always have some stupid extra challenge that no other object seems to have.
“Well, the guys who got it in here could only make it fit by carrying it through 12 backyards, which just happen to form a 700-yard sand pit with Dune worms and Tusken Raider snipers. Then they had to bribe a border guard with a child’s eyeball. Oh, and in our new place, it’d be great if you could place it on top of the chimney on the roof. That cool? Roof gyms are normal, right?”
If you own a NordicTrack, that’s fine. I don’t know you. You’re probably just as likely to be a decent person as anyone else. Just never move again in your life. Commit yourself to wherever it is you are now. Because otherwise I hope you get impaled on the handles and then your house collapses on top of you. And later a rescue dog pisses on your rotting corpse face.
Yes, I have a lot of time to think on this job.