Repairing a Door

  Our Delicate Flower selected an inch-thick rug for the bathroom floor, to insulate her tootsies from the stone cold tiles (that she also selected). However, the bathroom door had been cut for a low clearance. Opening it forced the bottom of said door into the same physical space as the top of the rug, violating the Pauli exclusion principle and causing shockwaves in the fabric of spacetime. Something Had To Be Done.

Wielding a twenty pound maul, I struck out the hinge pins with three rapid, precise blows that would make an eighth dan kendo master weep in envy. I tossed the hardwood slab across the room, over the balcony and twenty feet above the deck, where a well-timed gust of wind dropped it perfectly in place on the sawhorses. Pausing only long enough for an anticipatory (not "evil") chuckle, I backflipped off the balcony onto the deck, and stuck the landing right by the Infrastructure of Whirling Death. With a quick pull, I fired up the 675 horsepower V12 circular saw, which is capable of slicing a medium-sized locomotive cleanly in half in less time than it would take you to correctly spell "locomotive". The saw blade was forged of a titanium-awesomium alloy, and its cutting edge moves at a significant fraction of the speed of light. A lesser man could barely have picked up this engine of destruction, but in my hands it effortlessly shaved an exact 0.50000" slice off the bottom of the door. After that, it was merely a matter of doing a little touch up work, setting the door back in place, and slapping the pins in so fast that their steel surfaces glazed and their coefficient of friction dropped to an infinitesimal degree above zero. The door now opens at a thought and there is no longer a concerns of rifts in the continuum. There are a few National Guardsmen poking around, hoping to requisition my saw and integrate it into the East Coast defense network, but those are the risks that must be shouldered by the truly awesome.