This is never a welcome sight when you open a package.
On the other hand, it’s the kind of sight you expect when you see this first:
UPS, what the fuck?
The Cute Engineer, having moved lock, stock and USB-powered Dalek into the room formerly occupied only by Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson (who, being cats, can share), wanted a desk for his computer. I wanted a hint for his birthday. The confluence seemed inescapable. He hunted up a website which supplied a pleasing array of compact desks that fit into the oddly-shaped, dormer-bound space, many of them made of tempered glass, and was irresistibly fetched by this one. I had my reservations, but, well, anyplace that sells that many glass desks must have a system for dealing with breakage risk.
(Actually, they do. You tell them what broke, and the manufacturer sends a new one.)
Did I mention this cocksucker weighs about sixty pounds in the shipping box? Which was about four feet high? And that I had to pivot it in from my porch ever so delicately, on the assumption that UPS hadn’t actually beat the shit out of it, which of course they had? Oh, old broads of America, there is a reason you need to hie your asses into the gym and march right up to the middle of the dumbbell rack and forget those cute little bicep curls with the ten-pounders.
It only took a dropsheet, a hand vacuum, a dustpan and brush, and a couple pairs of nitrile gloves to determine the identity of the broken part. Cats tried to help. We locked them all in the massage room, with forceful expletives.
Why is nothing ever simple?