A washer repair technician.
Oh, fix-it monkey, why have you forsaken me? Is it because I call you a fix-it monkey? I could stop.
I’d so looked forward to our meeting today. Why, I’d even shoveled a path through the assorted Legos and dirty Underoos, washed the dishes in the sink (well, the ones gathering suspect fuzz anyhow), and cancelled a long-kept dentist appointment for you. And you know how I feel about proper dental hygiene! You know how I feel!
Alas, you cannot be moved from your stalwart position. You have bronchitis, yet I am the one made to suffer! Another whole week without the use of my ridiculously expensive state-of-the-art high capacity washer? How am I to cope? What will become of me?
More importantly, who’s going to wash all these damn clothes?!
Oh, you know who it will be. And it makes my blood boil with rage, like a fiery inferno heating a cauldron of molten fury.
Right now, you are being treated to the most delicious forms of retribution my ire-addled mind can conjure. But be assured, you do not suffer the torment alone. Oh no, my friend. There is another, the purveyor of this misery, who will be made to endure far more corporeal punishments than you.
For what the adult mind is capable of meting out in vengeance, a child’s imagination is equally adept at tempering with a delightful degree of humiliation. And it would suck to be on the losing end of this battle, Pepe. No doubt about that.
For when I asked my son what his daddy’s punishment should be, he barked his mirthless cackle and said, “Daddy should wear a diaper.”
This is the expected response to most everything I ask him nowadays. Diapers make him giggle like a schoolgirl. But when I told him daddies don’t wear diapers, he regarded me with a mixture of pity and disdain.
“Not baby diapers,” he said. “Ham diapers.”
My boy, you’re an evil genius. And I'm thankful for it.