I wrapped my head in a Rambo-like bandanna. The utility knife (with the razor blade menacingly glistening in the near Seattle like cloudy drab) carefully clenched between my teeth, I sprang from the front door. Charged across the stoop and dove onto the sofa. I cut the back off. I slit the cushions (being careful to preserve the 1929 "penalty of law" tag). I salvaged 3+ pounds of sofa flesh. But then, I out did my red neck friend. I gutted and filleted each of the cushions. I removed the skeletal remains of the coil spring foundation. These have been shipped to Kris to perform some kind of foo-foo bone dance on.
Now who says there ain't no excitement here on the tundra?