Dear U-Haul, I Hate You

I never could understand why every time I came into U-Haul to rent a truck there was some asshole bitching and moaning. Man, I thought -- no wonder all the lifeless employees shove paperwork in my hand and maintain a customer service demeanor that barely conceals the constant threat of physical violence. Their job sucks. I'd be a dick to everyone if I worked there too.

But on Saturday night I had reason to loathe the mindless, directionless oaf of the U-Haul corporate machine. This desperately moronic, bumbling buffoon that gives dumb asses all over the world hope that -- at least compared to something -- they don't look so stupid.

When our truck broke down outside of the store from which we were planning on taking home our new sofa (directly before moving the few remaining pieces of furniture that Amanda hadn't given away), and then we spent an hour on the phone with seven or eight different, confused, and infantile U-Haul "emergency hotline" call center employees, and then waited for an additional two hours for a mechanic to come tell us that the truck had a small mechanical problem that required a little tug while turning the key to make the giant piece of shit start, I thought to myself: if this company had a soul, I would be roasting marshmallows on its flaming ass while it burned in outer-most nether regions of hell.

But finally, at 3:30 in the morning (a few hours later than we'd intended), the last box of our stuff was home. Amanda and I, exhausted, frustrated, and a little pissed at the world, went to sleep amidst the clutter, only to wake up and begin sifting through it the following morning.

At least, in the time we spent waiting for our van to start, we were able to drive home and paint Edan's room. We painted the walls pink, 'cause that's what she wanted, and as an added bonus, made one of them sparkly -- like this: