From the dazzling mind of Matt Wilson
Is…is anyone down there?
Ah, yes, hi. I happened to be standing on the street corner when I glimpsed you walking into this open sewer. I tried to scream to you, “Watch out! You are walking into an open sewer!” but only got out the word “Watch!” before you just tumbled right in. So I just wanted to let you know that I wasn’t commenting on the timepiece on your wrist, which I did notice and find very nice. It’s a Timex, right?
Hmm, what’s that? I can’t hear you too well — I’m trying to avoid sticking my head too far in on account of the smell of human waste, though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.
Oh, you need help? Well, miss, I’d be more than happy to come down there and get you out from underneath what appears to be several very large dead rats, but I’m afraid I won’t be much help. You see, my hands are on fire.
Pardon? Oh, you’re wondering how my hands could possibly be on fire and yet I still manage maintain my cool, composed demeanor. “Why aren’t you running around and screaming, ‘Jesus Christ save me, my hands are on fire!’?”, I’m assuming you’re asking down there, because, honestly, all I’m hearing is sort of a low rumble.
Well, first off, allow me to say I’ve never heard that one before! Hahahaha!
But in all seriousness, the condition is genetic. My father’s hands were on fire, and his father, and his father before him. But only those three generations. Really, I’m fairly sure my grandfather just pissed off some gypsies at some point, maybe during the war.
So basically, my hands have been on fire my entire life, and I’m more or less used to it. It was pretty excruciating for maybe the first five years or so, but now I barely even notice.
I can tell you’re finding this hard to believe. “How did your mother carry to term and give birth to a child whose hands were on fire?” you’re probably asking between mouthfuls of what I’m sure is thousands of gallons of fecal matter.
An insightful question.
I’m not exactly sure how the physics of it work, but essentially my hands weren’t on fire until the amniotic fluid drained from the birth canal, I shot out of there and they got exposed to some good old American oxygen.
“So if the oxygen in the air keeps your hands from being on fire, why not keep them in sort of vacuum-sealed plastic or just a jar or something?” you’re saying down there, as you undoubtedly realize that cushy spot under your left foot is a used tampon deposit.
The funny thing is I tried that a few years ago, and it did pretty much work. My hands were not on fire for a good couple months. But you know, I decided that I’ve just got to be me, you know, and if my hands are going to be on fire, well, by God, they’re just going to have to be on fire.
I think the more important question is how the hell I do my laundry! Hahahahaha!
I ususally pull out and fold my shirts with my teeth, in case you were genuinely wondering that.
Huh? What? I…I actually think I can kind of make out what you’re saying. Hmm?
Oh, so what you’ve actually been saying this whole time is “Help! Shut up about your damn hands and help me!”
Well, I must say that I find that a little hurtful. I think of my hands as what make me me, you know what I’m saying?
Anyway, on the whole help front, you may be happy to know that there are a number of firefighters and emergency workers surrounding me now, which is something that tends to happen when I go out in public, so I’m sure they can give you all the assistance you need if you’re still interested in getting your arm out of that crocodile’s mouth.
And, just to say again, I wasn’t commenting on or making fun of your watch, which now appears to be caught on a big tuft of pubic hair.
Hey! It is a Timex! I can see the Indiglo!
Well, thanks for listening. You know, it’s not every day that I can get someone to listen to me ramble on about my hands that just happen to be on fire.
Hey, if you’re not doing anything after this, would you like to go grab a cup of coffee or something?
Actually, I can see you’ve got your hands full with what appears to be a tiger shark. We…we can talk later. I usually hang out in the park right over here and I’m pretty hard to miss. I’m the guy with his hands on fire.
Anyway, see you around.
A Copy Post from a Great other Blog
From the dazzling mind of Matt Wilson