Sizzle Flare-up

I was asked over the weekend if I might consider rejoining the fire department.

The thrill of saving a life is overrated.

Yes, the first time it happens, your body is so full of adrenaline happy joyjoy, that alcohol merely bounces off your liver, like bullets at Batman. Or Robin. Whomever was the bulletproof one. Whatever.

But the second time, all those jumping chest bumps and high-fives, followed by low-fives, followed by smashing your head through the drywall seems a little silly.

The third time, it’s like, “Meh. Fucking report time. Why people gotta be sick?”

And in between those life-affirming life saves of people I’ve bitch-slapped from looking into the light, there are 16,000 hundred cats stuck in trees. That’s a metaphor. Ain’t never seen a cat stuck in a tree. But I seen a few people stuck in houses. Great, big lonely houses with nothing but telephone lines and For a Good Time Call 9-1-1 refrigerator magnets.

I rarely write about most of these calls, ‘cause a fool situation invariably makes me look worse than I am, which is worse enough all on it’s lonesome. But whilst I used to take great pleasure in emasculating myself through this webpad, it’s been awhile since, as Asia puts it, I kept my sizzle from flaring up.

I’m not rejoining the department ‘cause it stopped being funny after five years. Situations whose absurdity/hilarity normally set my spleen to swelling eventually led to nothing more noticeable than Bell’s Palsy. When you can no longer laugh because half your face is paralyzed, you realize the comedic magic done run its course.

We responded once to a fire investigation, me and some other guy with great big handlebars and chops (Hi Jake!). At the door, the old lady says, “My home is really hot. Could you check the attic for a fire?”

{I think this was the first day I started storing my Schlitz(es)(sp?) in the cooler marked ‘Organ Donor,’ underneath a near limitless supply of tax supported icepacks. Notice I say supported. I bought at least some of those with my own money and when I say money, I mean I gave the RiteAid stock-girl free rides in the ambulance in exchange for icepacks and tenderness. God, in small towns, the sweetest girls work at RiteAid.}

In the attic, I found the problem.

“Ma’am you have what we know in the profession as insulation. I don’t know how to tell you this, but in order to cool your home down, we’re going to have to …/pauses for effect…open a window.”

“Why are you being so sarcastic?”

“Oh. Do you pick up on that?”

And this was when I started drinking Schlitz(es)(sp?) in people’s homes, bunked out in full gear, with the crotch flap fully open to reassure the patient that I was indeed wearing pants underneath, not like the rumors. Yellow pants, however, confirming a whole different set of rumors nonetheless.

And now I’m off to strip for the Girls at Girlspoke Central per their command. Thanks, Girls! Anyone ever told you that you have acute angina? /Winks suggestively and holds up a six pack of Schlitz(es)(sp?)