I am a snow shoveling machine.

Yesterday I was shoveling approximately 123 feet of snow as my father supervised while drinking a beer--we're a classy family. Not only did I shovel all of the walkway areas, but he instructed me to shovel out a path for the dogs and clear the snow out of a little patch in the huge-ass pen we have for them to run around in. I'm pretty sure that by the end of that shoveling adventure I had cleared an entire acre for the dogs to frolic in. They're happy though. Well, except for my dog, who sees the deep snow and immediately plunges in head first so that all we can see of her is her little tail sticking up. She rejects conformity and has no use for the acre of cleared ground.

By the time I had reached the front of the house my dad was on his second beer and I was mighty tired. The following conversation took place:

Me: Dad, we should have looked at the clock to see how long this took so that tomorrow I could have raced myself.
Dad: It took awhile, that's for damn sure.
Me: I mean, there's got to be a world record for speed snow shoveling, am I right?
Dad: Yeah, it's called a snow plow.

At the very moment I finished shoveling it started to snow again. Ah, irony.