I hired a handyman. He arrived, looked at the work, discussed materials, promised a start date and then disappeared so completely I assume the federal government gave him a new identity.
No call. No text. No estimate. Just silence.
Contractors do not say no anymore. They say, “I’ll send that over tonight,” then walk backward into the woods like Homer Simpson entering a hedge.
— TO BE CONTINUED INSIDE THE BOOK —
The rest of this dispatch — and 59 more, including the ones too incriminating for the internet — lives in What The F(arm): Sixty Dispatches from an Unqualified Ohio Farmer. Pre-order for $40 — half prints the book, half feeds the crew. When 100 people are in, the presses roll.