I stopped and bought a pack of smokes this morning on the way to the office. Driving again, I tried to light one up, and received a third-degree burn on my index finger.
Disgusted, I tossed the matches aside and fumbled in my handbag for my lighter. Finding it at last, I flicked it on, while keeping my eyes on the road. Unbeknownst to me, it was turned up to maximum flame height and not only did it light my cigarette, but my nose, as well. Making a mental note to figure skin grafting into this month’s budget, I drove on.
Unfortunately, I had dropped the lighter during the screaming, and had no idea where it landed until my seat caught fire.
Luckily, there was a doughnut shop across the street, so I leapt out of the car, ran into the shop, and bought both pots of coffee (regular AND decaf), ran back to the car, and extinguished the conflagration.
I returned the empty pots and turned to leave when the cashier stopped me.
“What is it?”
She uneasily indicated my jeans.
The cuffs were smoldering.
Brand new jeans, and the damned cuffs were on fire!
I bought a cup of regular, black, no sugar, and put them out.
Now I had ragged cuffs that smelled really bad and were dyed brown with absolutely no regard for symmetry whatsoever.
I sloshed back to my car.
I sat down on what was left of my seat, which also sloshed. My butt was now coffee-colored, too.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll light up while I’m parked.” I was able to do so uneventfully, and resumed my drive to the office.
Feeling that perhaps a little music would relax me, I flipped on the radio and twirled the dial, looking for something suitable. While I was thus occupied, a live cigarette ash fell onto my leg and burned a huge hole in my jeans. In my panic to put it out, I dropped my cigarette and it landed on my other leg, burning a hole there, too.
I pulled over, grabbed my lighter, matches, and cigarettes, and threw them out the window.
Walking into my office building, I was accosted by a group of teenagers.
“Hey, wow! Where’d you get the cool jeans?”
“Hey, Skank! Look at her nose! Sick! She looks just like a cat! Who did that for you, lady?”
“Philip Morris,” I muttered.
“Was it expensive?”
“Actually, no. Only $5.50.”
Lately, I’ve been seeing a rather large cross section of the teen segment resplendent in burned, coffee-stained jeans and black noses.
I’m just really happy I didn’t have leprosy.
God knows what they would have done.