Anywho (a rather manly word in its own right) I buy the thing at the home center and they put a handle on it using a machine, Japan puts handles on a lot of things, and give it to me. The handle instantly breaks as I try it out and the dresser falls to the ground narrowly missing my foot. The only way this story of manly proportions could have been elevated to uber manly proportions is if my foot was crushed but I carried it home anyways, because I am that brashly manly. They try and rework the handle system by putting two handles and double the straps, but I simply refuse to use the handles. At the time I thought I was doing this because as our President (true to my word no " " marks) would say, "fool me once shame on... shame on you... fool me twice and you can't fool me again." But now I know realize I didn’t use the handles because I was being super manly. So I carried the beast home. It was heavy, really heavy, manly heavy. I was an idiot not to have barrowed a friend’s bike and used it as a base, but I had that intoxicating chemical known as manly bravado coursing through me like hot liquid fire. I would bring the dresser home, for my wife (if I had one) and for my children (if I had them) or I would die trying - preferably half-naked and sweaty - the only manly way to go. As I climbed into Pop Town, physics brain (non-limbic brain) kicked in and I came up with a plan. I pushed the dresser holding it at approximately a 45 degree angle to maximize force. Having a degree in physics pretty much means I am an expert at moving junk, it is a useful skill although it doesn't quite make up for the fact that having a degree in physics also cripples your social life. So I go pushing the drawer set safely in its box through Pop Town. Of course this is not very manly, the whole pushing thing, unless I was pushing another guy in preparation of punching him in the face, but I wasn't. I pushing a box. I guess I shouldn't have included that in the story. But Pop Town ends! I must carry the box again. And so with a roar (or strained groan of agony depending on your perspective - I blame Doppler Shifting) I lifted the box and carried it onward! I make it back to my apartment and ride the elevator instead of taking the stairs, which I never take to begin with. But that is a cultural thing, nobody takes the stairs here so I don't think I should have Manly Points (TM) deducted for that. Finally mere minutes after I left the Home Center (defining “mere” as a number between 45 and 90) I have arrived home.
I immediately go back into the world and gather food for my famished frame. After a hard fought battle with a door, I feast.
I am back home and ready to put the dresser together. I rip open the box with my bare hands and remove all the pieces. I then carefully divide the screws into piles and make sure all my components are there. I look over the instructions carefully and thoughtfully thinking of each step and considering orientations, NO I mean I rip the instructions in to bits. And start to build. I let my raw animalistic instincts of kill or be killed flow from me, each screw is an extension of my virile life force, my cosmic untapped masculinity surges outward in awesome tsunami like waves. Even the most ferocious of beasts scatter in fear. I am lord and ruler over my domain, a man alone with tools and material. Manliness par excelance. I decide to listen to music as I build. I plug my iPod into the stereo and crank the volume to a respectable level. I let out primal growls of approval as Ani Difranco's "I am Not a Pretty Girl" sweeps over the room, did I say Ani? I meant someone not so femmy. I meant a real non thinking man's man it was like Rush Limbaugh only it wasn't music because music is to feeling, it was Rush's talk show that is manly for manly men to do manly men things to. And Vin Diesel was there too. Manly men them all. And at last, at long long last it was done. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my blood soaked hand (not sure how that happened but it was pretty manly) I stood admired my work and moved it into its place. I then yelled "Beer me!" And a cold one was instantly thrown my way. I downed it and crushed the can over my own head and threw it on the floor. It was a good day to die, it was a good day to buy a dresser.
But it was not as manly as the time Mr. Fitzgerald tested the cryostat by using his finger as a plug and pumping it down to a few hundred milli-Torr. That was the most freakin manly thing I have ever seen, it was bowel shatteringly awesome.