The oven on our stove quit working so we called the repairman to come out and fix it. They were busy and had to schedule a repair visit several weeks later.
When they finally arrived there were two guys whom I'll call Sam and Ben. Sam was a tall overweight guy with glasses. Ben was a short skinny little fellow. After they messed around with the stove for quite awhile they informed me soberly that there are three major things wrong with the stove and they will have to shut off the gas to the house until it is repaired and of-course the parts have to be ordered in.
Sam asked me to come lay on the floor next to him so he can show me what is wrong under the stove. I walked over to the kitchen counter but declined the offer to lie on the floor next to him. Getting up from the floor he went through the list of monotonous things they had to order and exactly what was wrong with the stove. I really have no idea what it was since the boring information all swirled together into an unidentifiable blob and I tried to remain appearing to be at least half ways intelligent and awake as I nodded my head and stifled the urge to yawn.
Ben turned and asked Sam for a pen to write the serial number down so they can order the correct parts. Sam slowly and methodically unscrewed both pens he had in his shirt pocket to make sure he doesn't give Ben the pen with the most ink. (I was choking back a wild urge to burst out laughing there.) They finally finished cleaning up the mess they had made, all except the dirty floor, and left.
I already feel like yawning just at the thought of them trying to explain what they're doing as they fix the stove once the parts get in.