(featuring the lost tribe of Whirlpool)
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Heads up, gentle reader. This week’s humor column may lean a bit to the bitter. Because, right now, I’m bitter.

See how it works?

Right now, I’m depressed. Why? — you may be wondering, unless you’re like my kitchen appliances and you just don’t care.

Here’s why: I’ve just learned that I need to run out and buy a new refrigerator, because not so long ago, I ran out and bought a new refrigerator. Okay, it was fifteen years ago, and the developer who developed my house bought it and then sold it to me, but let’s not quibble.

Fifteen years ago, the bank and I bought and almost moved in to this home of mine, a cozy place within which I’ve grown quite comfortable and mildly overweight. Unfortunately, I ended up spending my first night as a property owner in a different property — a hotel room — because I couldn’t get the smoke detectors to shut up.

As I discovered on Homeowner Day Two, during a “fix this or I will slay your family” inspection by the developer’s proxy, the problem … well, the first problem … was loose wires. Some rube subcontractor had failed to tighten the smoke detector’s wires … on any of the five … so it’s destiny was to exist in an endless “chirp” mode until some other primate swung round to bat cleanup.

And so it began.

The next thing to go was the two-story-high backyard deck, a wildly incompetent structure which I discovered the usual way – by falling through it. (I already wrote an article about that incident – The Tales of Luddite Johnson – many years ago, right after I almost might’ve died.) It turns out that an untreated deck plank had shrunk just enough to back away from its underlying support, effectively turning itself into a tiny little diving board.

So, naturally, that’s where I stood. After all, somebody’s gotta keep an eye on that Gravity promise.

(Weeks later, while paying to have the deck replaced, I learned that the dudes hired to construct the deck had broken every “here’s how you build a proper deck” rule in the deck rulebook, including the not insignificant rule about how to properly attach a second-story deck to a house. So actually, I could’ve died about eighteen different ways. I’m guessing, when the original deck was being built, there was much beer involved.)

Anyway – before I thought to go stand somewhere else, the diving board surrendered, Gravity earned its paycheck, and suddenly my entire right leg was on the wrong side of the deck. My first response was to eject a few words that had a slightly German bent to them. Then, I started thinking about how to find the criminally negligent deck-building team. Only then, after having waited patiently, did my leg nerves start transmitting some distress signals. “Hey, boss,” they shared, “this hurts. Admit it.”

I admitted it.

Fortunately, I was able to extract my body from the deck, using just my arms and my vocabulary. And when I say ‘fortunately,’ I mean fortunately – if an evil splinter had decided to get involved, I might still be out there, test-driving my new soprano vocal range.

The deck also featured a two-story stairway down to terra cognita, but it, too, had been erected, apparently, by a work crew who half-heartedly began construction around beer-thirty on a warm Friday afternoon. The thing had no support posts, and swayed like one of the less-monitored rides at a dimly-lit county fair.

Now, I have a shiny new deck that doesn’t offend any building codes. I never did find the original deck professionals, which has saved me thousands in defense attorney costs.

Next to go were some bathroom plumbing pipelets, which professionally flooded my wing of the house, but at least they had the decency to irrigate my bedroom while I was at home.

Not long ago, I had to replace the original dishwasher, and it looks like my next upgrade candidate will be the refrigerator. But let’s face it: having entered year fifteen of American Home Ownership, I’m now officially in the American economic cycle’s “planned obsolescence” phase. Think of it as The Lion King’s inevitable, natural “circle of lifespan.” Stuff is meant to break, so you’ll have to run out and buy new stuff. That’s how it works. That’s how rich people manage to make boat payments. And if rich people don’t have boats, the terrorists win. So shop, mister.

Fortunately, there’s an upside to replacing a fifteen-year-old appliance: I get to catch up on fifteen years of improved technology. For example, you can now buy a “smart” toilet, which I assume means that it can return the favor: it can get up, come sit in your room, and read a magazine.

Another example: while initially shopping online for a refrigerator that costs less than a four-year college degree, I discovered a relatively new fridge / stove / dishwasher feature — Sabbath Mode. I can’t speak to the Judaic principles guiding kosher kitchen appliances, because none of them were mentioned in Raiders of the Lost Ark, at least not explicitly. But I do recall that some of your more serious Hebrews take their Saturdays very seriously, and aren’t supposed to do anything useful, as if being Jewish were similar to being in a college fraternity. (I, for one, could never be Hasidic during college football season.)

We’ll see how it goes. Maybe I can hook up my kosher fridge with my smart toilet. They could mull some wine, dim the lights, and discuss comparative world religions.

Or they could watch The Lion King. If they hurry.