The Time My Brother Lit Me On Fire

How was your Parade Day, Bill?

Oh, it was okay; drank a lot of beers hung out with some old friends. The one minor drawback was the part when my brother lit me on fire. But maybe I’m just being nit-picky; I’m sure nobodies day went exactly as they wanted it to.

To explain:

Saturday was Parade Day in Scranton aka Irish Christmas. It’s Scranton at it’s best, just a day filled with Irish music, tacky green t-shirts and enough alcohol to kill an army of Hasselhoffs. The day was rounding down nicely and against all odds I made it home safely albeit extremely hungry (to whomever gave me a ride home thanks a million). So my brother and I make the bold decision that though we’re drunker than a pair of Navajos on the first of the month we’re going to do our best Bobby Flay impressions. One burner being lit unannounced and one ill-advised reach for the microwave later and:

My back hurts a bit (2nd degree burns on 3% of my body) but mostly I’m pissed that my shirt got torched. On the bright side I now know what burning flesh smells like and I’ve ruled out the possibility that I’m secretly a Targaryen. The morale of the story is don’t get adventurous with your cooking decisions when you’re in the midst of a solid brown out. Don’t be a hero just order some wings and avoid becoming a Pink Floyd album cover.

PS- Fuck a cold shower and black coffee, nothing sobers you up faster than being lit on fire.


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