The Great Fozz Migration: Part I. Stress is My Master

My wife and I have been married for 18 years. For 17 of those we lived in the same townhouse. Entropy sucks. We were going to move several times, but the vagaries of the economy and my attitude, which resulted in getting canned and fucking up our income, prevented us from going anywhere. Then the Spawn came, and they made deep friendships with the other kids, and then we got to know their parents, and so it goes.

Finally, we decided it was time. Mrs. Fozz wore me down and after a dozen shit ass things happening in the neighborhood, we put the plan into action. So we did it. Took the plunge and started looking for houses. I would rather have a glass rod shoved down my dick and smashed with a brick.

We finally found a house. And then we put ours up for sale. And then . . .nothing. We found out that our neighbors discovered a great way to save money – don’t pay your mortgage, or your car payment, or anything. So next door went into foreclosure. Every night I had visions of donning camouflage, buying an authentic K-Bar knife, and going fucking apeshit on the assholes. I’m talking Leatherface level carnage. Fucking assholes.

I have never, ever gone up against stress like this. Not in school, marriage, child raising, cooking meth, nothing. I lost weight and barely kept my shit together. My wife was off the fucking charts. We cleaned out our house for “staging” and bought new appliances – this leads us to my first major fuck up – and I have had tons of those.

The refrigerator was delivered and the guys who brought it in would not connect it. Fine, fucking I’ll do it. I was looking at the tube that fed into the fridge and saying, “This has nothing to do with the fridge, it feeds water to the unit. I should not disconnect it. Wait until the plumber gets here. You are out of your depth. Like Ray Rice at a NOW convention.”

I pulled the tube out. And it was like looking down the face of a fire hose. Water was GUSHING out. It sprayed the new paint in the kitchen. Water seeped through the floor into the basement. Fucking goddamn fucking crazy town. No one was in the house. I was screaming for help. Finally the delivery dudes came to the rescue.

Have you ever been on a different floor, yelling up the steps to a person whose second language is English? I was yelling “Off” and he was yelling “Jes! No! Jes!” Christ on a pogo stick. We finally turned it off. I have never been that stressed in my life, I killed a six pack and my heart was racing like Rosie O’Donnel’s at a Golden Corral Grand Opening.

Shit story short: we sell the house.

Now onto the next chapter: “Contractors Should All Die Ugly Deaths.”