I woke up this morning, as I generally do, and, as is also customary, reached for my pipe. I feel like a few puffs before I get out of bed invigorates my lungs. I know there is a lot of negative sentiment about smoking circulating through popular culture and most elected officials say it is bad for you, but I know that it’s just another lie spread by the cigarette industry. Imagine this scenario, a chain smoker finishes a cigarette and remembers that his doctor told him if he doesn’t quit smoking he will die. Like any honest American he doesn’t want to die, so now he’s feeling stressed. “I wish I wasn’t feeling stressed” he thinks to himself “but I know what would help calm me down, another cigarette!” In this way big Tobacco has doubled their sales. Anyway, as I said before, I reached for my pipe, or, I should say, tried to reach for my pipe, for I found that my hand would not move, nor would the arm that had played a gracious host to it for the last twenty two years. I tried again. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing happened. I had once heard, from some paternal figure, that the definition of insanity was doing something differently and expecting the same result. Well I soon began to battle insanity, and if it wasn’t for knowing that definition, I would have undoubtedly have succumbed. A mad voice began whispering in my head that I had been trying to move my arm for almost three hours and it was maybe time to try something new. “Silence you ignoramus!” I shouted out loud. I found the sound of my voice, the voice of reason, calming, so I shouted again. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with! I have over seven years of community college under my belt and have taken several courses that deal indirectly with critical thinking and you think you can trick me into insanity? You must be mad! Haha!” I laughed triumphantly at this joke and back to the task at hand with a newfound resolution. I tried to move my arm. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing happened. I tried again. On this third attempt my door burst open and my butler, Stefano, came shuffling and bowing in. Startled I sat upright. Once again in looking back I find that I have made a poor choice of words. I will try again. On this third attempt my door burst open and my butler, Stefano, came shuffling and bowing in. Startled I tried to sit up, but with no result. My neck was broken and I was paralyzed from the neck down. Stefano would feed me through a straw for the rest of my miserable and immobile days. How was it that I, the image of vitality (I am of course referring to the clothes line “vitality” which I modeled for Abercrombie) should be plucked from the vine of fitness while still green and sour? Still I kept a brave face. I would accept my fate with the stoic dignity that befitted my rank. I remembered that I had never visited Mexico; I shed bitter tears of regret. In front of me lay a bleak future, free from the bright colors and strong sense of community that characterizes our friendly neighbors to the south. In front of me also stood Stefano. His disgusting servile face was the last thing I wanted to see. Suddenly realization dawned on me. I had been a fool for not seeing it sooner. My paralysis was Stefano’s work. For years I had suspected him of trying to poison me, but all his attempts, which usually involved cranapple juice, had proven unsuccessful. He had grown tired of waiting, snuck into my room and, in what I’m sure was a groveling way, had broken my neck. Now he could feed me poison anytime he wanted.
"The game is up Stefano” I said, my voice trembling with emotion. “I am at your mercy.” Slowly and sinisterly he began shuffling toward me.
“Let me help you sir” he whined as he reached a hideous working class hand toward me. He grabbed ahold of my blankets, which had become tightly wrapped around me, and pulled sharply. The blankets unraveled and my useless body rolled to the floor. I lay on the floor as helpless as an infant that has been similarly paralyzed.
“Are you alright sir?” Simpered Stefano, “Do you need help getting up?”
“Enough of your mockeries!” I cried “Either finish me now or leave me to die of malnutrition in peace!”
He groveled out of the room and for nearly an hour I lay face down wallowing in my own misery and phlegm. Suddenly the door burst open. In my surprise I jumped to my feet. Then, remembering I was paralyzed, I collapsed to the floor. Slowly the implications of what just happened dawned on me. I carefully tried to move my arm. To my great joy it obeyed. I had not been paralyzed after all, but a prisoner of my own blankets and medical misconceptions. I rose to my feet in the most dignified manner that someone who had suffered as much humiliation as I had could.
“Well Stefano” I said shakily “as a role model for countless adolescents and several of the elderly I feel that it is my duty to offer you an apology.”
He looked confused, and as is his habit when trying to think, he stuck his entire fist in his mouth and began gnawing on it.
“Stefano!” I said commandingly.
This brought him to his senses. “This will help you feel better sir.” He said fawningly and handed me a refreshing looking drink. I put it to my lips was about to drink when my nostrils caught the smell of it. My face grew pale. It was the odor of death. Cranapple juice. For the second time that day I realized what a fool I had been. Stefano had planned it all. He had wanted me to believe I was paralyzed specifically so that I would be more likely to turn to a beverage for emotional comfort. I flung the cup at him and he loped out of the room cringing like a dog that has been caught eating its owners’ dinner.
I lit my pipe and tried to go back to sleep.
