Justin went outside to move snow this afternoon. Not even 5 minutes later, he comes back in the house bitching at me that he can’t believe that I “cat’s assed” something or other. Yes, he said “cat’s assed.” Being a “normal” person, I had absolutely no clue what he was trying to say. I slipped some shoes on and followed him outside to make sense of it.
Listen, all I know is that last time we got a bunch of snow and the wind was blowing a hundred miles an hour, I got on my four-wheeler and moved snow. It took me hours. It worked fine. The plow went up. The plow went down. Case closed.
As if it could end there. He goes on and on about how in all his years on ________ rigs (I won’t say the name) he has never seen drilling line “cat’s assed” as much as I managed to do with the winch on my four-wheeler. He tries to tell me I have to stay outside until he fixes it. I go back in the house, grab my camera, and start taking pictures, which of course makes him even more mad. And… BRRR… this is what I was wearing. (Those are his clown shoes by the way.)