Imagine I’m a roofer.
I’ve had a good start to my career as a roofer, even if I’m a HOT RENEGADE. Sometimes I put tiles in bizarre places. Sometimes, in pricer neighborhoods, I’ll lay their delicate Ludowici clay tiles in perfect ornament on the front of the house and just say screw it to the back. Why does the guest bathroom need full coverage? Uncle Gary’s the only one that uses it. And Uncle Gary doesn’t have a job. I hate Uncle Gary. Uncle Gary doesn’t get Ludowici tile.
But my clients find this endearing about me, for some reason. Probably because I look like a roofer. I wear these sweet denim overalls I found in an alley. I have six different hammers. I use non-toxic tar as hair gel (note: it may be toxic). And so I recently got called up to the BIG SHOW: Orange County, California. So many pricey roofs. So little time.
This is where things kind of fell apart. I told this one woman I’d only roof over rooms that either had this certain shade of yellow once found in the courts of Mongolian Khans (I’m really into Marco Polo right now) or a giraffe in them. None of them had a giraffe or gunscream yellow. I walked off the site, but not before I flipped off the entire family. I think I taught their six-year-old something valuable about life that day.