Stretch for woodcutting? Nigga, what is this? Yoga for frauds?
Adrian must have sensed my impatience. “I’m coming, man. Shit, it’s cold. Give me a second.”
A man with too many excuses is a liability dressed like a maybe—always present, never useful.
That nigga probably couldn’t hammer a nail into a biscuit or even build a box of Legos without the picture on the front and a damn YouTube tutorial.
Adrian finally grabbed the axe, adjusted it awkwardly, then raised it over a thick log. His stance was all wrong—feet too close and grip too tight. I stayed quiet… watching. Part of me wanted to step in and fix it, but another part was curious to see just how bad that was about to go.
Adrian raised the axe, grunted like he was summoning inner strength, and brought it down hard.
Thunk.
The blade buried itself deep into the log… and stayed there. It didn’t split anything; it just sat there wedged in.
“Shit!” Adrian yelled, shaking his hands violently, like he’d just touched a hot curling iron.
“You good?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“I wasn’t ready. My gloves too thick.”
Right. Thick gloves. Got it. Try again, Bob the Builder.
Adrian yanked once.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still stuck.
“It’s... it’s not coming out,” he muttered, tugging again, with both hands like he was in a tug-of-war with the log. “I think it’s jammed.”
I inhaled through my nose and cracked my knuckles.
This nigga.
I stepped over, grabbed the axe with one hand, and yanked it clean out like it was lodged in warm butter.
“It wasn’t jammed; it’s just allergic to bad form.”
He blinked, dumbfounded.
I slapped the handle against his chest and suggested, “Next time, put someangerin it. Swing like the wood stole yo’ tax return and blocked you. Shit… hit it like it told you ‘we should talk’ after you already bought her a meal.”
Adrian nodded.
For his second attempt, he took a breath, pulled himself together, and swung again—worse that time. Adrian barely caught the edge of the log, and the impact sent a jolt through his wrist, twisting it like the axe was fighting back.
Watching that shit was better than ringside seats at fight night. Damn near better than consuming three shots of brown liquor, clothes half-on, attitude full-off, and an ex whispering, “I missed you” after a toxic breakup.
Almost… and that’s saying something.
Adrian grunted, wiped his brow. “Man, this shit usually ain’t hard. This must be a different type of wood.”
Yeah… the kind that fights back when it senses weakness.
“Look, just take a break before that axe gets fed up and swings back. I ain’t got the energy to be fishing no blades outta yo’ collarbone.”
