As any of my regular readers know, we’re building a haunted attraction south of Raleigh. My regular readers also know we’ve faced tons of flooding issues on the property. We were supposed to be open about 3 years ago, but still aren’t because of various issues like the flooding. Last year, we had planned to just open during the day with a corn maze and other family friendly activities on the part of the property that doesn’t flood, but the guy who was supposed to plant our corn bailed at the last minute, screwing us.
This year, we bought the equipment and are going to try it ourselves, so on Tuesday, we tromped out to the tractor to disconnect the bush hog equipment from the tractor and connect the new tiller. Five hours later and more cursing than I care to admit to, we gave up when we realized that the damned drive shaft they gave us was too long. That’s right, I know what a drive shaft is. And it’s not nearly as much fun as it sounds (can you imagine how disappointed people are going to be when they google “shaft” and come across this post?). Fuuuuuuuuuuck. So S went to the place we purchased it from yesterday and one of the workers is going to come out and hacksaw the blasted thing to the right length so we can actually use it.
The only thing that kept me from killing someone (and by someone, I mean S, since he was the only person around) was the laughter I got every time I looked at the warning labels on the equipment. I want my new job to be creating the drawings for warning labels. Here are two of my favorites from Tuesday:
Warning! Do not bop naked dancing hippies on the head with the front end bucket! They can’t help it. They’ve just dropped too much acid.
If I was this flexible, I would teach yoga. But I’m not. So fuck you, Yoga. Also, if I die a horrible death via rotating driveline, I hope I have the wherewithal to flash jazz hands and keep my feet in perfect first position.