If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, what is a cluttered garage a sign of? A future career in junk appraisal reality television? Advanced onset dementia? Both?
Let’s take the grand tour. Watch your head, and try not to look the spiders in their eyes.
Over here you will see a colorful assortment of deadly poisons and more lethal poisons. I think one of these cleans drains. Or enriches uranium. I can’t seem to remember anything with this darn A.O.D.! Moving right along.
In this area you will see several objects that I cannot identify. Like, I literally could not tell you what their intended uses are. In fact, looking at them now, I feel like a test baby in Jean Piaget’s Swiss Baby Object Permanence Facility. Oh, Jean! Perhaps they are parts from one of those portable street organs that pet monkeys would play in 19th century Venice, or, you know, wherever that happened.
Here we have a canister of gasoline, a chainsaw, a lawnmower, and a half-empty tank of propane. There’s also a bag of charcoal. Good thing I put out my cigar! Ha ha! (It’s still lit, but I legally have to say it’s not to avoid more garage tour lawsuits).
Over here is a hose. Wait. That’s two hoses.
Finally, I like to end every tour of my garage with a haiku:
This is my garage.
I don’t know where most of this
Stuff came from. Or is.