CLOSET HOMOSEXUALS AND GIMPS ARE THE LAST PEOPLE YOU WANT HELPING YOU MOVE

Women.

I love women

The world would not function without women and women are the superior sex.

No doubt about it.

But don't ... DON'T ... ever put a woman in charge of a moving day.

Women have NO CLUE as to the ins and outs of moving from one house to another.

Oh sure...maybe you or some woman you know has bucked the odds and learned from MEN just how to have a successful move.

...If that's the case, I'll start building a shrine to them tomorrow.

As I reported yesterday, Susie volunteered me to help her friend move. They needed a "strong back" who could lift heavy things.

I have a weak and frail back, but I can still lift heavy things, because...well...I can't do much else.

I'll be the first to admit...I'm right there with you women...DON'T ASK ME to be in charge of a move. I'm as clueless as a coma patient when it comes to making a move successfully. That's why I've lived in the same house for 12 years, the very first house I bought.

And I fucking HATE helping people move. HATE IT. My boy Eddie Lavoie moved recently. I've helped Eddie move a few times in the past. Even HE KNOWS not to call my ass to help him move and he's one of my best buds.

So we get over to Julie's at 10 a.m. because Julie woke up at 9:30.

On Moving Day. She decided to "sleep in".

I shoulda known we were in trouble at that point.

First off...when you've asked people to come help you move ... a good rule of thumb is to BE READY FOR THE FUCKING MOVE.

Julie had yet to pack any boxes up with her stuff.

Oh ... there were a few boxes packed up. But those had already been carried over to her storage shed earlier in the week.

We show up and Julie's mom, her friends from Atlanta, and a couple of co-workers are already there, standing there in disbelief.

"Let's start packing," Julie says.

"Wait just one damned minute," I think to myself. "You're not packed already?!?"

Of course...she doesn't say anything because I only thought that to myself and didn't say it out loud.

I grab a box and head to one of her guest bedrooms and start tossing shit into the box.

Julie walks in and stops me.

"Oh no," she says. "Those bears go in storage....those CDs are going with me...and that alarm clock is going to my mother's...."

Excuse me??

I'm sorry...but did you just say "I'M A FUCKING IDIOT WHO SHOULD HAVE ALREADY HAD ALL THIS SHIT DONE BEFORE I CALLED MY FRIENDS TO HAVE THEM COME MOOOOOOOOVE ME AND NOT PAAAAAACK ME???????"

Of course...once again...she didn't answer me, because this was kept neatly tucked inside my head.

"I've got a better idea," Julie suggests. "Why don't you help Susie wrap pictures?"

Oh sure. Oh yeah. That sounds like a barrel of fun. Go work with my bitchy, hormonally-driven wife wrapping pictures so she can get under my skin just A LITTLE more. Where the fuck do I sign up for THAT shit???

So I go help Susie wrap pictures while shit sits around and doesn't get packed up.

I gave up my Saturday for THIS???

Julie had more pictures than most museums. We must have wrapped (and double wrapped) 40 large pictures all day. Finally...around Picture #38, Susie and I got our rhythm down and flew through the last two pictures.

The previous 37 were like trying to defuse a bomb. If she was trying to tape it, I was trying to wrap it, etc.

There were two other men there "helping" Julie move. We were outnumbered 3-1.

Robert is a co-worker of Julie and Susie's.

Robert is married with a daughter.

I SWEAR Robert is gay.

I have nothing against gay people. But if you're going to be gay...than BE GAY, DAMMIT.

Don't be gay, get married to a person of the opposite sex and crank out a kid. That shit ain't right and just confuses the shit out of everyone around you.

Robert was the most feminine person there. He calls everyone "Girlfriend" and has wrists that are so limp, it looks like cooked pasta hanging off his elbows.

He lisps. He preens. He sashays.

He was in the Army for several years. Something tells me he got the holy hell beat out of him on a regular basis in there.

His marriage is DEFINITLY a cover for something. Maybe his parents have a ton of money and won't leave it to him unless he's straight, I dunno.

I would just have a helluva lot more respect for him if he dumped his wife and shacked up with Greg Louganis or something.

Anyway...Robert gets SOOOO macho when it's just me and him. It was like night and day. It cracked me up so much...we'd get alone in a room and start lifting heavy stuff out to the truck and his voice would drop about seven octaves.

"Alright buddy," his voice would fake boom. "You ready to lift this dresser?"

I would almost drop the dresser, I was giggling so hard inside. I just wanted to say "Cut the crap, Elton. I know you're gay. You don't have to try and fool me."

Anyway...that's Robert.

Then...there's Paul.

Bless Paul's heart...he's probably in his late 50s.

And I could SWEAR he has a wooden leg. Or he has no hip bones, one or the other.

Susie works with Paul's wife and has for years. All this time, the information behind Paul has never surfaced.

Is it a wooden leg? Does he have polio? Was he born without a thigh??

In a nutshell, Paul isn't the person you want to call to help you move.

In a perfect world, Paul would have sat at home all day and just sent his wife over to help move.

He didn't. What an imperfect world we live in.

Paul and Rosemary get to the house at about 2, right when we're breaking for lunch.

Rosemary had carried a few boxes to the truck while Paul limped around the house aimlessly, trying to look busy so that nobody would catch on that he wasn't doing shit.

It's painful to watch the guy walk. I just watch him and wince thinking "Jeez...that must really hurt to walk like that."

"What does everyone want for lunch," Julie asks. "Pizza or chicken?"

"Pizza, pizza, pizza, pizza," Paul keeps repeating like a small child.

I wanted to say..."Look Gimpenstein...your vote doesn't count because all you've done so far is get in people's way for the entire ten minutes that you've been here. Now go prop yourself up in a corner like a tripod and take a nap."

But I didn't, because secretly, I wanted pizza too.

We got chicken.

Fuckin' Paul had to ruin everything by repeating the word "pizza" to the point where everyone resented him and didn't want to give him what he wanted because he was about as worthless as a wart on one's ass.

I silently cursed Paul as I ate my chicken.

I mean...flat out...NOBODY expected Paul to move anything heavy. But jeez...how about a lampshade or a pillow or something? The guy doesn't have to be 100% useless.

The funny thing is...he would follow people around and LOOK like he was about to do something...but then he'd just stand there helplessly and wait for someone else to do whatever it was that needed done.

Like the patio furniture. Julie says "We need to get the patio furniture on the truck".

So, Susie MY SIX-MONTH PREGNANT WIFE, Paul and I go to the patio and start taking cushions off of chairs.

FUCKING CUSHIONS, PAUL. THEY WEIGH ABOUT AN OUNCE APIECE.

Paul stands there and makes small talk as I carry the chairs, gliders and lounge chairs out to the truck while Susie gets every single cushion.

Meanwhile, Paul gives us current weather reports.

"Boy, it's a hot one today," he says.

"Try actually DOING something while in the heat," I once again think to myself.

I'm carrying one of the chairs out to the truck when I see Robert standing there with his wrists on his hips, and talking like a sassy black woman.

"Girlfriend, you just need to show that man THE DOOR," he's telling one of their co-workers with a face like a rat, who's apparently having man problems. Apparently...her man likes women who don't look like rat people.

Robert sees me and instantly syncs into macho mode.

"Here," he says, puffing out his chest. "Lemme help you with those chairs, pal."

He grabs the chairs out of my hands and puts them on the truck while I close my eyes and pray to God that this is all a dream.

It wasn't.

We got finished at 8 p.m. Susie and I were exhausted and went home.

...But not before we stopped and got a pizza to take home.

Eat me, Paul. I got a pizza and you didn't.

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ELDERLY WALKING COUPLE CONVERSATION FROM YESTERDAY:

OLD MAN: "Good morning."

ME: "Good morning."

(Apparently he was in a foul mood. His wife just grinned. I bet his scrotum was killing him).

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