Worldwide Federation of Couch-Wrestlers

Someone once told me that people should not survive their children. No worries there. My children are doing everything in their power to see that I don't. Yesterday, my friend Clint and I went to my daughter' upstairs apartment to deliver a futon. Her old couch was looking ratty and disgusting. Evidently, her ex-husband thought that a white suede couch was a good idea for a home with toddlers. After two years, the couch looked like it has been dropped into a monkey cage. Getting the futon up the stairs was no problem. Getting the couch down the stairs was a problem. I believe it must have weigh a half ton, and was broken so badly it almost flopped. Clinton and I wrestled the thing to the metal staircase. I got behind it, down the stair, while we tipped it over the edge, It came down the stairs like a freight train. Fortunately, I had the good sense to get out of the way before hit hit the bottom. If you recall the scene in Jurassic Park when the car gets stuck in the tree, you have some idea what it was like. Once we got the couch down the stairs, then we had to get it to the dumpster. Clinton hit on the idea of hooking a hand truck to one end and dragging across the parking lot. It made the going a lot easier, though we did leave a curious green mark across the asphalt. (If asked, I will deny this last part.) We thought we were home free when we got to the dumpster. But then the apartment manager came by. "Do we leave this on end, or what?" we asked. He eyed us like a traffic cop who was just asked by a speeder to hold his beer while he fished out his liscence. "Nope, in there." he answered. Clinton and I looked at each other in astonishment. The top of the dumpster was about seven feet in the air. We eyed the couch. We eyed the couch. We eyed the stairs we had just taken it down. Then we eye the manager. "Okay," he said. Clinton has a saying that, when you eat a plate of frogs, the best plan is to start right away, and eat the big one first. Right then, I would rather eat a plate of frogs than get a hernia lifting that couch. But the manager helped, and the three of us managed to get it tilted up, and with a herculean effort, especially by Clinton, we managed to lift it up and into the dumpster. I wonder if Clinton is still my friend. There is no real moral to this story, except maybe the part about the frogs. But it is a shout out to Clinton, and that anonymous apartment manager, without whose help I would probably still be wrestling with that couch. Thanks to both of you, and God bless.