Our trip has a villain. Behold, the Couch of Death. If you’ve visited Cindy and me, then you know that we reside in something that’s a cross between a cave and a Hobbit hole. We, and about 10,000 other people, live on the side of a massive hill. Most houses are built with one end on stilts to level out the living area. Some home owners have taken the opposite approach and dug into the hill in order to construct a level living area. Our house occupies such an area. Our fourth “wall” is the hill itself, held back by large lava rocks.

While this type of arrangement is quiet and cool, it makes entering the house quite difficult. The street is above the house, so the front entrance of the house is essentially inside the hill. In order to come inside our house, one must first go behind another house and go through a series of narrow passages and down subterranean stairs.

The Entryway of Despair

The Stairs of Doom

Needless to say, going through the Entryway of Despair and down the Stairs of Doom is an inhuman activity while carrying anything larger than a medium-sized cantaloupe. Thus, Cindy and I were eager to buy the previous tenant’s/Hobbit’s furniture that he had so lovingly moved into the house. He, unsurprisingly, was eager to sell it to us to avoid moving it out of the house.

In the back of our minds, we knew that we would eventually be responsible for moving all the furniture out of the house. Nevertheless, we were confident that whomever wished to rent the house next would make the same decision we did and buy our furniture. It would be the sensible thing to do.

After two weeks on the market, our landlord has received one request to view the house. The party did not wish to rent it. My backup plan was to donate everything to the Salvation Army, since they provide a truck and movers for free. Two guys came through the Entryway of Despair and down the Stairs of Doom. They looked at the furniture and said, “We don’t do hard.” They took some small pieces and left. That army sucks.

We have to move the rest of the furniture out of the house, including the Couch of Death. It’s a massive 80″ monstrosity that the previous tenant/Hobbit could not fit through the Entryway of Despair and down the Stairs of Doom. Instead, he had to carry the Couch of Death around the house above ours, throw it over the retaining wall and into the backyard (where I assume it was caught by Andre the Giant), bring it underneath the lanai, lift it over the lanai’s railing, and finally move it into the house through the lanai’s sliding door.

Now it’s our turn. Our first enlisted help was Brian. He owes us because we gave him our dresser. That dresser was made from solid wood and had a stone top. It weighed approximately 23984792739128390124 lbs. I told him to bring another person because we would need three people to move it. He said I needed to “man up and just do it.”

When Brian arrived to move the dresser, he gave it a few pushes. It remained immobile and laughed at him. “Dude, this is heavy,” said Brian. YEAH MAYBE THAT’S WHY I SAID BRING ANOTHER PERSON. After a few hours, we managed to permanently damage our backs but heaved the dresser up the Stairs of Doom, through the Entryway of Despair, and into Brian’s CRV. “So uhh, can you come with me to unload it?” I HATE BRIAN.

Most distressing was that, during hour four or so of moving the dresser, Brian commented that he has “little noodle arms” and said, “at least you lift weights.” Hear that? Brian actually thinks I’m strong. And he’s going to help me move the Couch of Death? We need more people.

Enter Eric, a big burly fellow. He owns a truck and works with wood. Good, he sounds like Wolverine, and Wolverine is strong. Except last time I heard Eric talk about his physical capacity, he said something like, “You know, I used to almost be in good shape.” I need new friends.

Speaking of useless friends, allow me to share a tangential story.

<BEGIN TANGENTIAL STORY>

On our wedding night, one of our guests had an unfortunate incident involving a drunk surfer and his lapdog while walking to the after party. Several of my friends witnessed the incident and were in position to provide aid. None of them did. Their excuses, in descending order of legitimacy, were as follows:

1. I just got my worker’s visa and I didn’t want to get arrested (OK, this is valid);
2. I ‘m a citizen, but I’m very old (I buy this);
3. I’m a citizen, I’m not old, but I’m out of shape because I smoke and I couldn’t get there fast enough (this is pretty crappy);
4. I’m a citizen, I’m not old, I don’t smoke, but I had to pee (this is asinine).

For the record, the only person who intervened was my sister-in-law, like all 5-feet nothing and 100 lbs of her. She lost her shoe while running towards the ruckus and swung her purse upon arriving.

I need new friends.

</END TANGENTIAL STORY>

Back to the Couch of Death. On Sunday, the not-so-Fantastic Three of Brian, Eric, and me will attempt to move the Couch of Death onto the lanai, throw it over the railing, carry it to the retaining wall, lift it over the wall, and move it around the house to freedom. As far as I know, none of us have an Incredible Hulk mode, which the previous tenant/Hobbit apparently did.

Four days to Seattle. Fourteen days to Hong Kong. One thing stands in the way.

Thou shalt not pass!