Things You Think
When You’re on Fire
Ned Nedmiller, Occupational Hazzard 

Monday, Dec. 10, 2001
“Great Burping Furbies!” screamed the Dane wearing the hat of flames. Whoozat? Whazis? Time takes a moment to shave it’s kneecaps. Everything slows, like molasses out a chipmunk’s nose. You remember the time you were on the Ferris Wheel at the fair, and your great grandma barfed sawdust over the side, and when the wind kicked up it looked like a swarm of whiteflies chasing a fat little boy through the Midway. Good Gremlin Gonads, what am I thinking this for? Now? I need medical punctuation! An apostrophe! An apostle! Someone take me to Sea World, and don’t spare the pistons!

No no no, them teeter-totters won’t get you to the hospital today. Them’s union totters. Jimmeny Jumpropes! Look at the headlamps on that brunette! Wait. I smell burning man-hair. Am I still on fire? Great Tidy Wipers, I am! Shitbells and Josephine! Somebody get me a Handiwipe and a Shasta! I’m too young to provide heat for cooking and recreation!

You remember the time you saw a donkey catch on fire at a propane-tank-throwing contest when you were just a boy. Good Lord Wencelas, was that donkey meat stringy. You never forgot the look on that donkey’s face when he looked at you, all on-fire and the like, and recited word for word a report you gave in the third grade from a book about asparagus.

Suddenly you regret using the fire extinguisher to frost those giant mini-wheats you made in the garage. You consider buying an off-season airline ticket to Bort, a small town in Manitoba that surely has snow by this time of the year. But remember what happened the last time you tried to buy a ticket while on fire? You might as well try ordering ranch dressing on your applesauce. Damn damn damn.

You finally understand all them paintins with the meltin’ clocks and horseheads and whatnot. No wonder them giraffes was on fire, they must’ve been trying to hook up a paintball gun to a lawnmower, too! Clever goddamn giraffes! Damn if it isn’t hot in here.

Right about then you scream somethin’ in Spanish and dive headfirst into the picklin’ tank, but turns out them cucumbers is more flammables than they look on the radio, cause the whole damn contraption goes up like a ricepaper hut on Arson Day. Sweet Stammering Dandies! Nedder’s having lunch with Joan of Arc!

Now most usual times you’re on fire, you have some revelations about the meanings of life or how to cut them lawn with a helicopter but there’s rarely enough time to put but two of those to use before some well-meaning passer-by douses you with a garden-hose (or, if you wander into a football stadium, them huge buckets of Gatorade) and you have to start her all over again. Damn-jabney. Sometimes there aren’t enough hours in a day.