Now this is more like it– here’s a door! Not a bad door, sufficiently crappy, just a door, and it’s ALL OURS. Does it get more mundane than this? Somehow I’m betting it does. One day, this door will be fully slammable. And that’ll be the day the real fun begins. You’ll all be lining up around the block to swing our lustrously crappy door.

This door comes from Erik, who it seems is out to steal the Crapshack show by piling on the crap so that we have no choice but to make every post about him. Or maybe he’s just completely and honestly and to-the-gills full of crap. Which isn’t to say we’re not grateful.

Distance traveled: I don’t know, but I can’t imagine more than a few miles.

How it got here: That’s just it: I DON’T KNOW. Scott mentioned he was going to go and pick it up, then came back four hours later completely loaded, with whiskey pouring forth from him pores, but with a door. I’m just the inventory manager — I don’t ask questions.

Crapshack Devotees — meet the Craptruck. It’s stuck in Four-Low, and it takes a lot of duct tape to hold up the rust where the wheel wells once were. So it won’t exactly be used as our police chase vehicle.

But it runs! It starts right up and purrs like two thousand cats in simultaneous heat. And even better: it’s got an amazing extended cab with a bench seat, and the No Bullshit row of lights across the top, and it will be perfect for hauling crap up and down the logging trails. Plus, it’ll make for fine guest accommodations until the Crap GuestHouse is built. I’m only barely kidding– this beast is ROOMY. Bring your whole family. Then after a cozy night of sleep we’ll invite Wayne over for breakfast and thank him for the Craptruck.

What this photograph doesn’t reveal is that the Craptruck has not one, but TWO gas tanks, one of which leaks and is duct taped closed. I’m guessing that both of them are always thirsty.

Distance traveled: about three miles at a Four-Low snail’s pace.

How it got here: uh, in Four-Low, snail’s pace… while paranoiacally on the lookout for cops.

We got us some windows, real beauties at that! These came from Erik, who sold us the land. Which initially made me a little suspicious, because I always thought Real Estate Agents were in the business of -selling- crap, not giving it away.

But here they are. One’s a big picture window, and the others are double-pane casement sorts. If we don’t get anything else — if this is the last crap we get — we can always stack these up house-of-cards style, and take turns squatting inside the resulting structure. Thanks, Erik.

Distance traveled: about five miles

How it got here: in the back of the bumpy truck. The picture window was too big for us to lay it flat in the bed of the truck, and we weren’t smart enough to bring any blankets or other cushioning for it.

So Scott had this brilliant idea of standing the thing up in the bed of the truck (I’m talking VERTICALLY) and rigging it that way with ratchet straps. Which seemed crazy: you simply don’t transport a window vertically unless you want the whole scene to end with Keanu Reeves riding a motorcycle through it. We later found out that Keanu was in Australia filming The Matrix Part Twelve at the time, which must be why we got it back safely.

We’re more or less rolling in tools– it’s really nothing short of amazing how Scott manages to come up with them. You can ask for some weird-ass thing, an etzbah ruler, and he’ll eagerly whip it off of some multi-tool on his belt. I can’t tell you how much I love this. But somewhere he’s got a damned tool to measure how much.

But one thing we didn’t have was this framing nailgun, which is as badass as it looks. Now, when we talk about wanting your crap, we’re really talking about crap you have no use for. And a nailgun seems awfully useful, and not at all crappy. But I suppose when the giver is your own mother, you don’t say no. And if you’ve ever tried to say no to my mother, you’d know this. Thank you mammi.

Distance traveled: a thousand miles
How it got here: we brought it up ourselves when we went to visit my family for Christmas. It rode in the back of the truck along with the thousands of other pieces of crap my mother plied on us.

Note to my mother: I’m just kidding! It’s a joke! We love every last thing you gave us and consider none of it crap! And while the fact that I have to joke about it is surely a sign of a deep and inherent insecurity on my part, please don’t think that my neurosis is a reflection of your parenting abilities. It has NOTHING TO DO with all those times you told me I wasn’t funny. (You see? That’s a joke too! Thank you for all the crap xoxoxoxo)