Watch This!

Indian and I were talking about that phrase and how it is the precursor to bad things happening. You know, you say, "Watch this!" as you put out the barbecue by unrinating on it. By golly, the stench woke Mrs. F up from a sound sleep when I walked in the door. It had the same effect on Mrs. Indian when he went home. Who knew it would make that much steam?

Or you say "watch this" as you light the flammable, atomized atmosphere you created in the bathroom with copious amounts of BrakeKleen, WD-40, and other aerosols that shall remain nameless. Man, you could smell it coming out of the bathroom door in the shop, the one we had wedged shut with the salesman inside. I took out my lighter and held it to the crack in the door. Indian said, "Do you think it will light?" And I said, say it with me now. "Watch This!" Man, the look on that guy's face when we opened the door after the explosion. He still had his pants around his ankles but not a hair was left on him. Like I said, bad things happen.

Then there was the day one winter when Indian hotrodded this little snowblower. He's outside with this thing that sounded like an Indy car. (My pal drilled out the carb jets and the thing revved like a sumbitch) I came out of the shop, because one of us was doing serious work, just as the village code enforcement guy pulled up across the street. He got out of the car, leaving the window open, and went up the block. Indian turns to me and says, you guessed it, "watch this" and jams the Indy car into a pile of snow. I tell ya, the driver's seat was filled up to the dashboard in seconds, fast enough for Indian and me to go inside and act like we were working when the cop came by to ask who the smartass was. Bad things.

And did you ever notice how alcohol and "Watch This" go together? It's a good thing Indian and I don't live across the street from each other anymore. That time we were chopping (well, Indian was chopping) wood for the potbelly stove he has in his garage. Indian was chopping and we both were drinking. Well, it was the middle of winter and we were cold. Why the hell do you think we were chopping the wood? The wood was pretty green and wet too (more on that later). One piece wouldn't sit up straight and kept falling over before he could split it with the axe. (Yes, two drunken assholes playing with an axe.) So what do I say (rather than get a different piece of wood)? that's right, "watch this".

So I held the piece straight with my index finger much like an NFL placekick holder does. Indian swung the axe and the wood split. I tell you what, bad things almost happened there but all ten are still attached. I'm NEVER doing that again.

More on the green, wet wood. Got to get it to burn right? What in Hell did I just put my index finger on the line for? Do we have a little kindling? Nah, far be it for us to plan that far ahead, but it is the Indian's garage. We got chemicals! From the people who brought us Napalm, we got WD-40, BrakeKleen, and those other unnamed chemicals. Believe it or not, we didn't pee in it. Man, all I can say is thank God the stove was thick cast iron. When we threw that fucking match in . . . bad things. The upside was that the flue had been dirty with creosote, an inherently unsafe condition. Well, that blue fucking flame that howled out of there a foot and a half high blew that all out. Clean as a whistle after we let it cool off and took a look. We still can't figure out why the neighbors were getting their house pressure washed the next day. The garage got warm too and we drank more beer.

Just a little advice from someone who's been there. When some nitwit calls your name and says "Watch This", run like a motherfucker. If you hear Indian and me calling your name, shoot us both.