I have the honour of working at a fire lookout for five months of the year. One of the benefits of such an adventurous job is that I get to experience life without running water. Like the pioneers of days of old, I collect and use rain water. Unfortunately, there is not always rain water to collect. It is a time of discovering your personal H2O priorities. For me, the first thing to go is shaving.
The fascinating thing about my armpit hair is not that it is so sparse (contrary to the thick and luxurious tresses I envisioned) but that it grows outside of its natural boundaries.
When in the land of running water and razors, did I not shave an adequate area? Did I merely shave the middle of my pit-hair, creating a ring? The answer is yes. The result: the dreaded Pit-o-Ring.
When I return to the land of razors the Pit-o-Ring will be resurrected and be forewarned, the Pit-o-Ring’s treachery knows no bounds! With the seemingly insignificant lift of my elbow nations will fall.
Thousands will gather at the foot of the Pit-o-Ring hoping for that single glance of the circle of hazel hued curls. All believing that setting their eyes on such a site will grant them clemency.
Unfortunately for planet Earth, by the time the masses have gathered to worship Pit-o-Ring I will have diminished beyond recovery. A shrivelled shell of what I used to be, my body permanently twisted elbows up and my head lolling back – every bit of me bent to enhance the display of the Pit-o-Ring. A mere Pit-o-Ring support system I will be powerless to stop it.
None shall be pardoned by the Pit-o-Ring but the gathered crowd does not know it. They wait anxiously, eyes fixed upon the stage assembled for this very purpose. Today is the day Pit-o-Ring will address the globe.
My malformed body shuffles to centre stage. The stench is pungent and apparent – body odour.
A man in the front row vomits.
The crowd is uneasy. I stand, silent, centre stage: greasy and foul. There is no sign of life in my heavily lidded eyes.
“Where’s Pit-o-Ring?” Vomit-man shouts. Other voices join him and they chant “Pit-oh-Ring, Pit-oh-Ring!”
My eyelids flutter in a hopeless effort against the Pit-o-Ring. A groan escapes my lips.
“What did that thing say?” Vomit-man barks.
With great effort, I utter my last words, “Fly you fools.”
Vomit-man replies with a shriek, “That freak quoted Gandalf!”
The crowd ROARS with anger. No one quotes Gandalf and gets away with it. “Get her!” they screech.
A thunderous fart ERUPTS out of my ass and BLASTS the masses into silence. My head rolls back as my left elbow raises up to reveal: Pit-o-ring.
The crowd, the pitiful sheep, cheer and applaud. They are dizzy with brainless excitement.
A high-pitched whine, barely audible, and like needles sticking out of my skin Pit-o-Ring’s hairs become poker straight. They vibrate.
Vomit-man’s eyes’ widen in terror. He is the only one who senses their imminent demise. He claws against the surging crowd, but he is too late.
The pit-hairs have reached their necessary pitch. In their final hurrah they curl and then quickly whip out. The wretched B.O. stench explodes from Pit-o-Ring with a sonic boom. Every earth-bound biped is scorched by this fatal wave.
Every earth-bound biped save one: me. As the Pit-o-Ring support system it will do all in its limitless power to keep me alive. A bane upon my existence I long for death. But it never comes. I am forced to walk the earth at the whim of the Pit-o-Ring. I am cursed.