My new name is Bruce Baghacker. This is because I received a parcel post, and along with the winch I'd sent away for, there was pillow shaped packing materials of almost clear vinyl, full of air. Or some gas. Maybe it's an industrial gas. Or Morpheus, God of form or what ever, farted into the square pillows, sealing each unit by tensing the muscles in his fine gargantuan ass.
They were posing a minor problem because of all the space the shit takes up in the trash, after I flatten and bind the big brown cardboard box, like a responsible cellulose recycling little fuck. But I was not angry when I drew a blade!
I had that Carnaby Street feeling when I took to stabbing the pillows, each time pressing the gasses out, so the noisome vinyl can better be stowed in the shit can in the kitchen. But you've not been here. What the fuck is a kitchen?
Fuck. Just join me in celebrating my new name. A trade name. I'm a working fuck.
No no no no no...........Yes. Tics. Spasms. Outbursts.
You ask me, Mr. Baghacker, why did you want a winch?? Fair due! Good Question. I see you're thinking. That's good. Real good. A motorcycle. Planning to winch one up a steep dirt embankment behind my digs. If this Greek tragedy nets results, some cool transportion could follow. Like the sun. Or an angel. Or some type of animal that somehow reflects your ontology. Your shit. Your cosmos.
....I blazed a trail about a hundred feet long, adding for dog legs and serpentine log jam divertimentos. Gonna use two ropes and a dolly to move a bike, mostly assembled but not, in a 300 pound carton built like Hercules' shit house. Like Hera's bidet. It's stocky. Hope my system doesn't fuck up, like in Zorba the Greek.
I be winching if it works!
Cranking. Pumping. More like an orgy than anything else happening in this dead puppy village. divertiminto! 
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