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What Happened When I Accidentally Fell Onto My Kitchen Floor

Kenneth is a rural citizen of Hamilton, Ala., and has begun to observe life and certain things and people helping him to write about them.

This is NOT me. But how I wish that I looked this good.

This is NOT me. But how I wish that I looked this good.

May I Take Time to

introduce myself. I am Kenneth Avery. According to my birth record, that is my real name. Of course a few friends and family call me Kenny, and I’m guessing due to them (the family members) being so lazy that pronouncing my entire name tuckers them out or they just don’t care. Either way, I find myself on the floor of our kitchen floor—all alone with my wife, Pam, (Pamela on her birth record), being out of town visiting her friendly family members.

Me stuck here in the floor is actually very scary and very funny. I was trying to reach a pack of healthy crackers, those with no salt, no taste, and nothing to brag about, and before I knew it, I was in the middle of the floor. The best part of (that) prat-fall was those awful excuses for food avoided my fall and none of the crackers were crunched. Why? Can you tell me why? Stupidity never ceases to amaze me. Me falling on these crackers (that could pass for Styrofoam) and grinding them into dust was not as serious as me and a few others plotting the fate of the Free World. It was just a quiet, isolated, harmless accident. You Quantum Mechanics can debate why in any other time those crackers would be dust!

I should crawl into our living room, but I have already discovered that there is a serious pain that throbs with each heartbeat and the pain has taken over my right leg—which I am not doctor, but I feel that it’s not broken. And if it were, I would be dialing 9-1-1, but our phone is on the charger out of my reach.

I am in trouble. Serious trouble. (e.g. Jim Lampley, HBO Sports, calling the Buster Douglas vs Mike Tyson boxing match). Speaking of Lampley, I wish he were here right now so I could get him to help me to get to my living room so I could crawl into my recliner and the TV remote: Modern Man’s Two Most-Pliable Tools. Did I mention how naturally-good looking Lampley is?

So What Should

I do now? I am not going to over-state the comedy of error because I am not at the moment of sheer starvation because I have yet to use the strength that I have reserved in my girth so with one giant leap, I could open my refrigerator door and latch onto whatever food item, (real food item, not those stupid health crackers), and tear it to pieces like the primal part of me that has been cleverly-hidden by American Society by using several “tools” such as: Tolerance; Tenderness; Self-Abasement; Self-Sacrifice; and almost never thinking of myself at all. This is what has happened to this accidental-prone, 64-year-old whom needs you, anyone, to jump into your car and floor it!

Since I cannot reach my phone, just get to Hamilton, Alabama, that is in northwest Alabama, and ask any police officer whom know me, but because I am arrested everyday or week, but when I worked for our local newspaper, I did give our “Boys in Blue” a lot of positive PR. Those favors are still in effect, if that helps you any.

The facts: none of my limbs are broken. Thank God for that news. And that is good news, but doggone it, there is a down side: do you remember the late Chris Farley? Now do you remember his fun-loving size? If Farley were still with us (which would be great) and he would stand beside me, we would look exactly like two great big, husky guys who had never darkened any door of any gym. Not even a sauna.

So I am somewhat a prisoner of my own girth because I simply cannot jump up to my feet with the speed of a cat such as Mary Lou Retton, so I just sit here looking sad and lonesome as a forsaken dog that was left out in the middle of Winter. Some humans, I tell you, are some of the most self-centered, self-focused souls on the planet, take it from me!

Maybe, Just Maybe a Few

well-chosen phrases might keep the panic attacks from turning me to a big man who is sitting in his kitchen floor and now he is beginning to feel as stupid as he might look if his family or friends were to come by, knock on his front door and find him sitting there with mouth agape, eyes wide-open and his hands waving like a brakeman on a freight train signaling for the train to stop.

Do you like rap music? Kinda a contradiction in terms, huh? I was exposed, well, accidentally-exposed to rap music by my only daughter, Angela, in 1986, when she was 10. I have to say that of all the rap performers in that time, my quick favorite was Kool Moe Dee—with his hard-yet-perfect rhymes that kept us on the floor as well as on the ropes. I liked most of his music. I sure wish ol’ KMD would drag himself by my house and barge in with no announcement. I would. I would even give him a bear hug.

Okay. Since I do not feel like writing a narrative section of my accidental spill into my kitchen, I shall try to write a few sharp phrases in which Kool Moe Dee would be able to rap with some very bouncy, bouncy music that can only be born in Detroit.

“Ahh, yeah . . .I stand by myself, like a Christmas elf . . .I look good

I am good . . .standing apart, breaking their hearts, . . .my pants are sharp . . .

My shirts are tight . . .the gals climb on me . . .I’m not a tree . . .I’m the

King of me!”

(More heavy drumming here with a heavy foundation of saxaphone).

“Ahhh, yeah . . .I crawl like a snake . . .I feel like a bake . . .I sound good

. . .I am wood . . .legs apart, sweet as a tart . . .I am sharp . . .I am the tune

. . .I hate balloons . . .dog, be careful at who ye’bite . . .I am a bear . . .

You can’t growl like me . . .I am the King of me . . .Open ye’ drunken eyes

and look at me . . .look at me . . .drivin’ my Z . . .don’t ye’ see . . .?”

(Song ends as drum and saxaphone fades out).

You young people here and about HubPages like music like that? Do you think that I sounded cool? Oh, well, if you didn’t, that’s cool. We all can’t be play-UH’s.




Since I’ve Laid Here

I have managed to move at least three feet straight toward my living room. My right hip aches as well as my right foot. Maybe in that blur of the moment when I was foolish enough to reach for those awful crackers, I might have sprained my hip and foot. Now I may have a bigger, more-serious problem: strained body parts. Not the name of any baby food. I have a strained right foot and hip—and my wife is still not home. Even if I had our home home in my hand, it would be useless because she never travels with a wireless phone and now with me home, she wouldn’t have a need for a wireless.

What about me? Yeah, what about me? Ever think, Pam, that I could be as short-sighted as to try and grasp a package of generic crackers that not even the hungriest of fish would want to eat if they seen them sitting on a man’s hook. I’m telling you that if the C.I.A. knew about Lifeless Crackers, they might rule the world. The C.I.A., not those awful crackers.

Hey! I can almost reach the back of my recliner. There is hope after all. It’s mid-afternoon. There is a classic movie about to start. I heard that on one of my TV channels last night. But I am still here on my big butt and my right foot and hip are aching as if I am in need of medical attention.

Just wait ‘til my wife, Pam gets home.

© 2018 Kenneth Avery

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