But maybe it should.
For weeks this stupid tree has been scraping the little pipes that stick up out of the roof every time the wind blew. All night long, scraaaaape, scraaaape, scratch scratch, scraaaaape. Like some horror movie featuring Evil Santa and eight tiny reindeer with pointy spikes for hooves.
Tonight there was football on instead of Must See TV so it was either Big Brother or the roof. And let me tell you, that roof is steeper than it looks, especially when you are wielding a four-hundred pound pound saw-on-a-stick. Makes you wonder about the two lawn chairs and 36 quart cooler adorning the roof of a similar house two blocks down. Rooftop beer drinking? Really? That's what we call natural selection.
(I'm going to have to keep this short because there is a giant-ass red bug flying around the lights on the ceiling fan and I am going to have to go somewhere else. I may be able to saw branches down while perched on my roof but I don't do bugs, especially when there is even the slightest chance that it could be a bee)
In closing, Charlie asks that I stop interrupting him during his special bedtime ritual.