By Christopher Munroe
I was being extraordinarily reasonable.
I didn’t raise my voice, I wasn’t rude, I simply explained that the first time I put a guy into the wood-chipper I’d bought, it jammed, and asked for a refund.
Jerry, behind the counter, explained that the wood-chipper was meant to chip wood, and since I’d misused the hardware no refund would be forthcoming.
What part of my life as a hired murderer would lead me to need chipped wood?
Still, nothing I could do, so I bought another, sturdier wood-chipper at a rival store.
This weekend, I’ll demonstrate it to Jerry…