Your dad ran a moving company and he was killed by a couch. It was being raised up to the third floor to try and get it through the window of an apartment because it couldn’t fit through the door. The cord snapped and the couch dropped right on your dad’s head, snapping his neck.
“He left the business to me,” you’re telling a customer. “And I’ve built it into a small local empire. I did it with hatred in my heart.”
The logo on your trucks reads “Your Furniture Killed My Daddy, And I Will Never Let Your Furniture Get The Upper Hand Again.” As Couch Maureen, you promise that you will be in control at every point in the move. No one will ever see you or your team members hesitating or guessing at an angle or a width for getting a couch or an armoire through a doorway. You’re always ten steps ahead of your furniture. You’ve already carried their couch up the steps and around the corners and through the vestibule and into the living room before your customers have even finished packing.
“It’s about not letting the furniture get the jump on me,” you’re telling your customer. “Like my dad did.”
You turn to the portrait of your father.
“You were sloppy daddy,” you say.
The customers are getting uncomfortable.
“SLOPPY!” you scream. “YOU WERE SLOPPY DADDY!”
You’re crying now. Spit is coming out of your mouth as you scream.
“HOW COULD YOU, DADDY! HOW COULD YOU LET A COUCH TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME?! HOW? DID YOU WANT IT TO TAKE YOU AWAY? DID YOU NOT WANT TO BE WITH ME AND MOMMY ANY MORE?”
The customers are moved to tears with you. You barely even know they’re there anymore.
“WHYYYYYYY DADDY? WHYYYYYY?”
Getting a grip on yourself you turn back to the customers and slam your fist on their moving contract.
“As God is my witness,” you growl. “I will tame your furniture. I will be its master during the entire course of your move. Your furniture wants to be damaged to prove that it cannot be subjugated to human will. I will make very clear to your furniture that on this matter, it is very mistaken.”
Your customers sign their contract, and then the three of you hug and cry together.
“Fuck your furniture,” you say, waving goodbye as they leave. “Fuck it straight to hell.”
They wave back as they step through the door, confident that their move is in good hands.
Happy They Call You Couch Maureen Day!
