Honestly, I don't know how I got by without this chainsaw. Now that the throaty purr of a two-stroke engine spinning seventy inches of diamond-sharpened chain has become my solution to every problem in my day-to-day routine, my life has drastically improved.
For instance, I'm enjoying a romantic dinner with a sensual lady. I'm in my tux, she's in one of those playboy bunny outfits. Things are going well. When I pull a chair out for her, she notices that my muscles are only exerting half their potential power and swoons. I make her laugh deeply with my captivating tales of instant messaging with Lowtax. The boat oars, traffic signs, and whimsical brick-a-brack adorning the restaurant's walls seem to swirl around us in a manifestation of the whirlwind love that is blossoming.
Then, the unthinkable.
Our waiter brings me a Shirley Temple after I specifically asked for a Roy Rogers. I politely point out his mistake, and he responds in a rude manner, sullying my honor in front of a lady and potential make-out partner. This cannot stand.
I lean over and remove the chainsaw from its carrying case below my chair. Our waiter backs off nervously, looking back over his shoulder. There, by the entrance to the kitchen is his own chainsaw. It is an inferior make and model. Knowing he has been outclassed, he tells us that our drinks are on the house.
Game, set, match.
Or maybe I'm walking down the street, minding my own business, when suddenly I find myself in an abandoned factory with half a dozen crazed bikers in matching criminal outfits surrounding me.
They begin to laugh menacingly, punching their open palms. The gesture reminds me of something, but I can't place it. After a few moments I realize: The punches represent punches they intend to hit me with.
Under normal circumstances, I'd be a goner. No doubt about it. This time, however, they are messing with a dude with a chainsaw.
My back clanging against the corrugated steel wall, I brandish my chainsaw and wave it around wildly until the hidden latch on the main body pops open, revealing the built-in rape whistle that comes standard in all 2010 Husqvarnas.
I toot. They try to run. A S.W.A.T. helicopter descends into the warehouse's central opening, mowing them down with a side-mounted rocket launcher.
Let's say I finally become a novelist thanks to the chainsaw, my desk pressed against a great big window overlooking snow-capped mountains and a perpetually frozen lake. I release an oversized installment in my fantasy/horror/comedy series every year and a half, the sort of nerdy epic that you'd never admit to having read, with those hand-drawn maps in the front that get consulted a little too often.
One day I take the ski lift into town and happen upon a Chainsaw Competition. One of the contestants suffers an injury (Logger's Tummyache), rendering him unable to compete. The crowd turns to me, chanting my name, hoisting banners with my name already woven into them in bold letters of fine golden silk.
Standing at the gate of destiny, the chainsaw roars into life in my outstretched hands. I run it across the snow at my feet and spell out: "No thanks. I really appreciate the offer, I do. I'm flattered, but I'm just coming into town for"
Then the gas runs out. I look up to finish the sentence, but the crowd is all gone and I am terribly, terribly alone. Salsa. It's salsa.
At least, that's how I hope things turn out. With this chainsaw at my side, I don't see anything getting in the way of these dreams becoming reality.
This isn't about harassment. It's about ethics in cat journalism.
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