That ugly-ass POS motorscooter took me hours to remove, mainly because the man who installed it, bless his heart, attached it to the studs with 3" screws. My neck still hurts from wedging myself under that damn thing with an battery-operated screwdriver, which was thankfully designed with a light to illuminate your work. (Note to Stockholm: I'd like to officially nominate whoever came up with that little improvement for a Nobel Prize of some sort.)
Probably the worst part of this little endeavor (worse than the sore shoulders) is the aftermath:
This is what's fallen through the partially open bottom of the vanity over the fifteen or so years that it's been crouching in that spot. I have NO IDEA where that toilet brush came from, and that oversize Barbie futon is certainly not my brand of maxi-pad. Ew.
Even worse, though:
The p-trap, or whatever the hell that thing is called. It's hard to tell from the photo, but it looks like someone washed their irish wolfhound and then expressed its anal glands into that thing. Smells like it too. Canine anal juice and rotten eggs blenderized with dry cleaning fluid might be a better description of the stench.
Anyway, the grossest part is probably over. Next up on the agenda: moving the light fixture receptacle. Which is going to be a whole ton of fun with old plaster and lathe walls and wiring that dates back to the Eisenhower administration. Wish me luck.
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