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.
