Plumber Butt: the nasty secret
is finally revealed (so to speak)
After slaving away at Tear Down the other night, I now know how Plumber Butt happens. I'm wearing a comfortable pair of pants, with a radio hooked onto the waistband. I'm bending, I'm stretching. I'm delivering, I'm fetching. I'm leaning, I'm crawling. I'm lifting, I'm hauling.
And after pulling up my pants the first 10 or 12 times, I just really couldn't care less. There were more important things to worry about, like making sure that everyone called me "Earl the Pearl," the new tradie name that I had scrawled on my fluoro safety vest. When you're really and truly in Earl mode, somehow showing the top of your underwear, along with a bit of butt cleavage, doesn't really seem at all unusual.
Adelaide is 27C today. Back to work tomorrow, but for now I'm working on renewing my passport. Does anyone know a Justice of the Peace in Adelaide who can be a guarantor for me? Ya, I thought not.
conceived, scrawled, heavily edited, carefully reconsidered, left for a while to digest, edited once more, and then ultimately posted by: just call me jeff at
6:20 p.m.
1 Comments:
Ooh, ooh wait! I know of a Justice in Adelaide!
Oh. Wait. No. I just wanted to be helpful.
Plumber Butt or "Working Man's Smile" is a tragic event. Normally I recommend True Value Butt Spackle, but since you are so damn hot, we'll just all create extra work that makes you get to that point.
By
Anonymous, at 4:57 a.m.
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