Diminishing apologies for apoplectic outbursts

By Bryan McKenzie

Published: October 17, 2008

My dearest neighbors,

Please accept my sincerest, heartfelt apologies for the inflammatory exclamations that recently pervaded our common area. It no doubt provided quite a start, as one does not often contemplate such delicate personal matters as those I addressed in the utterances made at such an extended volume.

My bombastic exultations of many inappropriately colorful metaphors came as I attempted repairs to a roof leak above the carport.

Yes, I was caught by surprise as the Phillips screw-head drill bit slid from the fastener and planted itself between my thumb and forefinger. Indeed, the razor-sharp edge of the rolled and pressed aluminum sheeting, which prevented vegetative debris of local flora from clotting and clogging the spillway of the eaves troughs, did slice and section the skin between the first and second knuckles of the middle finger of my right hand. It was a most distressing and painful experience, but the resulting bawl, bark and holler should have been controlled.

Most likely your progeny, many of whom were making merry at the time of my outburst, were upset by my remarks. Please accept my sincerest apologies.

Bryan McKenzie.

Dear friends,

Please forgive the blatantly offensive language I recently used while attempting to repair the carport ceiling by replacing leak-damaged gypsum board with new Sheetrock stock.

I am sure you and your children did not expect the sudden burst of curse that echoed up the street as the 4-foot-by-2-foot piece of carefully cut sheeting fell from its place and crashed upon my head. The sudden jar forced me off the ladder, which admittedly was about two inches too short, and sent me staggering backward and into a supportive pillar as the gypsum board slammed to the ground, breaking into a dustbowl of minute pieces and negating two hours of work.

I hope my description of various actions that are anatomically improbable, and most likely violate numerous Virginia statutes, did not distress your offspring excessively. I’m sure the embarrassing questions that no doubt followed were most disturbing to your digestion. I am truly sorry.

Bryan.

Hi, folks,

Sorry about that screaming. I was draining the transmission oil from my motorcycle and started sliding across the oil-slicked carport like a pig on ice, flapping crow-like to avoid going arse-over-tea-kettle over the railing and into the backyard one story below.

Trying to pour fresh oil dram-by-dram down the transmission vent tube, I soon realized the tube was not meant to be an entrance for anything larger than an oxygen molecule. By then a half-quart of Arabia’s finest was on the ground and every insect for a block was trapped within it. I felt like Vlad the Oiler as I watched them writhe in exquisite agony in my own little recreation of the Exxon Valdez.

Then the last little nut to replace flung itself wildly into the dark reaches of the motor; flat on its back and totally out of reach of even my little spider-like grabbing device, which I absently squeezed against my nose while curse words flowed like endless rain into a paper cup.

Please tell the lady who is circulating the petition to have me debarked that I am extremely remorseful.

Mac.

Hey,

Keep the kids indoors ’cause I’m working on the porch lights this morning.

You’ve been warned.