My Workshop is Going to Be Awesome


I’m opening up my own workshop.  I do a lot of cool stuff that warrants having a proper workshop.  I sew stuff.  I screw things together (not a euphemism).  I bolt things.  Sometimes I cut things in a dangerous manner with metal snips.  I use hobby knives and other sharp objects without wearing gloves.  Sometimes I paint things in areas without proper ventilation.  I often use power tools without wearing safety glasses (I’m actually probably lucky to have both eyes).  In fact, I don’t even own a pair of safety glasses (so really lucky), but I would at least own safety glasses if I had my own workshop.

And quite frankly, I’m getting tired of working in places that aren’t suited for a workshop.  And, trust me, there are a lot of them.  I used to have a work area in my mom’s basement, but she kicked me out and turned the entire thing into a Zen garden (thanks a lot, Dr. Oz).  Seriously, it looks like Ace Hardware is having a rake sale in the Sahara Desert down there.  Then I worked in the spare bedroom of an apartment I was living in.  And my roommate was none too happy about that situation when she found out what I was using her room for while she was at work.  For a short time, my workshop was in the supply closet at the office where I worked.  But after I was terminated decided to move on for using a blow torch in the supply closet and setting a bunch of chemicals on fire causing several thousands of dollars worth of damage over creative differences, I had to move my shop elsewhere.  I worked out of the trunk of my car for a while (my car has a really big trunk), but that made me feel kind of vagranty, not to mention there was never quite enough room for activities or to sit upright when the trunk was closed.

My current workshop setting is a small unused area in a strip mall behind a Rue21.  It’s not ideal.  And I can’t run power tools during business hours.  And the manager prefers that I spray paint after business hours as well.  Not to mention, they don’t want me to store any kind of harmful or flammable chemicals (which is like 99% of chemicals) there.  It’s just not a productive or encouraging work environment.  And the Rue21 bathroom is back there, and, even though it is supposed to be for “employees only,” all those girls who work up front let their friends and any other nice-enough-looking customer who asks come back there to use the facilities.  And looking through racks of somewhat reasonably prices clothes must make women have to go pee, because that bathroom gets more foot traffic than the Big Butter Jesus (if you don’t know, Google it).  Some days it’s so busy you’d think they were giving out free shit in that bathroom.  And with all those ladies wandering back through there, that leads to a lot of questions like, “What are you doing back here?” and “What are you working on?” and “Are you supposed to be back here?”  I don’t come all up in Rue21 while you’re shopping and interrogate you!

So that’s why I’m really need my own workshop.  And that workshop is going to be awesome.  There’s going to be all kinds of cool stuff in it.  There will be a ton of tools.  Like a literal ton of them.  Maybe even two tons if I get the nice tools.  I’m going to have a welder and an air hose to pump up tires and blow air up unsuspecting women’s skirts.  I’ll have a drill press and a band saw.  And a lathe!  And a planer!  I’ll have lots of work areas with plenty of easily accessible power outlets.  I’ll have a grease pit and a vehicle lift and a big rolly toolbox.  And there will be a paint booth so everything I own doesn’t have overspray on it.  And I’ll have lots of coffee cans full of nuts and bolts and washers.

And that’s just the basics.  The best part of my workshop is going to be the things that really make a workshop awesome.  There will be some neon beer signs.  And I’ll have to have some metal beer signs too.  I’ll probably have a NASCAR hood from Hut Stricklin or Phil Parsons or Ricky Rudd, or, depending on how big my workshop is, all three!  There will be some comfortable couches to lounge on when you aren’t working on something or if you just want to take a nap.  I’ll have a bathroom with a urinal that goes all the way to the floor.  I’m going to have a drink machine that has Yoohoo and Vanilla Coke and Red Stripe.  I’ll have the best snack machine ever.  It will have Twinkies and Crunch Bars and condoms (just in case) and Fruit Stripes Gum and Newport cigarettes for the guys and Misty 120s for the ladies!

I’ll be able to build all kinds of cool stuff in my workshop!  I can finally make a full-sized ED-209 (from the original Robocop, not the new one).  I’ll be able to finish the half-scale Harrier jet that I started out of popsicle sticks in the 9th grade.  I can fully realize my dream of building a car out of cotton swabs that runs off of bubble gum!  I can play shuffleboard indoors!  Working by moonlight will be a planned luxury, not a temporal inconvenience.

I’m so excited about my workshop I can hardly stand it.  I just need to round up the land, the building, the permits, and all the other stuff that building a shop entails.  So if you know how to build a workshop and wouldn’t mind giving me some pointers, ask to use the bathroom at the Rue21 in Franklin Square Phase III and let’s chat.

About BatDoc

I’m a dynamic figure, often seen scaling buildings and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train and bus stations on lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention and reducing high-traffic areas. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees and write award-winning plays about pastry. I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I make meatloaf. I have been known to woo women with my sensuous and god-like electric air-guitar playing. I can pilot riding lawnmowers up severe inclines with unflagging speed and accuracy and can cook 30-Minute Brownies in 20 minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Brazil. Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon River Basin from a horde of ferocious smaller-than-your-pinky-finger fire ants. When I’m bored, I build full size models of airplanes out of Popsicle sticks. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, I repair TVs and VCRs free of charge. I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Last summer, I toured Wisconsin and Minnesota with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me. I can hurl coat hangers at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read War and Peace, Moby Dick, and Great Expectations in one day and still had time to repaint the exterior of my house that afternoon. Though not a narc, I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I can recalibrate and repair gas lines with blinding speed and precision, and I don't require a face mask. I still find time to sleep eight hours a night; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation to Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me. I balance; I weave; I dodge; I frolic; and my bills are all paid. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a jello mold and a toaster oven. I used to breed prize-winning killer dolphins. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, performed open-heart surgery, and have spoken with Elvis. I have been to Area 51 and seen the complex. I enjoy cake and my best friends are Edmund the Penguin and Dr. Narco the Intelligent Thermos. I tied Jose Canseco in home runs last week, and I’m mere words away from completing a New York Times crossword puzzle I started on in 1988. Volumes and volumes of written works have been produced about me, but they were all lost in the fire. I am an extrovert. I’m marginally more popular with feminist than Rush Limbaugh. I don't scrape my vegetables onto my grandmother's plate when no one is looking. Hard as it may be to believe, I have never lost a pole-vaulting competition. I was nowhere near the grassy knoll on November 22, 1963. I’ve never hit a silver-medalist in the knee with a club. I wear sensible clothing, and I did not mastermind Julius Caesar's death. That was Cassius.

Posted on July 31, 2014, in A BatDoc Original, Original Series, Short Essays and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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