Michael’s chainsaw massacre

I’m driving like Jason Stratham through the streets of Buffalo, desperate to get to the We Sharpen Anything store. My chainsaw can’t cut a day-old zombie. The previous weekend I attacked a salami-sized tree limb and ended up burning it rather than slicing it, so the chain really needed to be honed. We Sharpen Anything closes at 5 p.m. Seriously. The time at which you can try to get there after a day of work – and fail. It’s like getting front row seats at a school recital or tickets to Book of Mormon. You know these things can be done. You’ve heard of people doing it, just never you.

The mad traffic slicing pays off and I get to the store at 4:50 p.m. giddy with joy.  I have done it.  I have made it in under their unjust, anti-business wire.

And they are closed.  The sign says they close at 5:00.  May watch says 4:50.  I shake the door.  It looks old and sticky.  I shake the crap out of it.  I’m standing there, hot, pissed off and I remember I have a chainsaw in my hands. 

It’s bad business to anger a customer base that only visits you replete with knives, axes and things designed to hack.  I would have proved this to We Sharpen Anything, but my chain was dull.  Couldn’t cut a butter lamb.

Maybe next time? No. I said, like a Terminator, “I won’t be back.”