My artist friend David held out his bloody hand and waved it in my face. “What the hell am I supposed to do with THIS?” he demanded, waving it to and fro and splashing blood on my jacket.
“I dunno...chalk it up to experience and try to be...I dunno...”inspired” by it? Why the hell are you asking me?”
“You're the gobshite who is always going on about symbolism and all that crap. You writers are all a little bent. I figure you could do something with this.”
“Well, Davey-O, you, sir, are the visual artist. I would assume you could do something yourself. Wrap a piece of raw codfish around it, strip nude, recite the ingredients on a jar of mayonnaise...I dunno...call it performance art. Wasn't that essentially what your “Cheese and Loathing” installation piece last spring consisted of?”
David blushed a little bit. “Go to hell, Andrews. This is serious. That damned circular saw was supposed to be just a prop. How was I to know that the switch on the damned thing worked?”
“Well, this is a good lesson for all of us. I think that...”
“See, there you go. I damn near get my hand taken off by a meat slicer on steroids and you're gonna' go and turn it into some kind of moral tale. Can't you just tell me what the hell I do now?”
“Davey-O, I suggest a big glass of ice-cold gin with a tasty little olive and a nice trip to the emergency room. Maybe not in that order. The nurses will give you a lollipop if you behave yourself and don't make rude gestures with your good hand.”
“Fair enough,” replied David, smiling a bit, “that seems reasonable. Still, you're probably right...there must be something to be learned from this.”
“David...perhaps the lesson is that when you are learning to juggle you should just stick to chainsaws. You should have known those extension cords would get in the way.”
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