Win tickets to see David Sedaris on November 7

• Nick-- Was the winner of the contest going to be announced publicly here on the site, or e-mailed privately? Either way, I'm guessing since you were scheduled to make a decision yesterday at noon, and if we weren;t contacted by you, it means we didn't win. Thanks much, --RoxyRed

• I'm shuffling south down Broadway in Denver's second big snowstorm of the season. Despite feeling like a freezer-burned dreamsicle, I'm a tad tipsy, and I'm smiling to myself because I've just left the main branch of DPL, where I have managed to secure a much-coveted copy of David Sedaris' "When You Are Engulfed in Flames."    As I stand shivering at the bus stop, waiting for the "0" to whisk me away to my cramped-but-cozy Gov's Park domicile where I can escape the chilly urban tundra, my rosy glow abruptly departs and my mood turns bitter to match the weather. Out of frustration, I mutter bleak curses and kick an immobile snow-covered wino passed out on the sidewalk, resenting the fact that my current next-to-minimum-wage under-employed retail-sales-bitch gig fails to provide me with enough disposable income to buy his book, or the tickets to see said esteemed author perform at The Paramount next Monday night.   Trying to shake off the negative thoughts, I mentally drift away, anticipating the moment when I make it home and can curl up in front of my happy homo hearth with the resident four furry feline roommates--two are mine; two are the ex's. With the ancient thrift-store space heater blasting away in front of us and a $5 bottle of cheap Cabernet scored from Argonaut clutched in my blue-tinged frostbitten fingers, I can finally relax and enjoy an evening of wittily-written hilarity.   An unexpected glow of heat near my feet shakes me from my domestic reverie and I look down, startled to see, not my familiar burbling space heater after all, but a flaming cigarette butt stuck to my foot. I let out a shreik as my beloved acid-green vintage Moon Boots begin to melt into a chartreuse puddle of 1970s toxic-chemical goo. As I dance around trying to shake it off, my earmuffs fall askew and a loud bass voice yammering at top volume blasts my in right ear. Whirling about, I discover standing next to me the culprit--a clueless corporate CEO, blathering on into his cell to some unfortunate underling about mandatory staff pay-cuts and hiring freezes, blind to the disastrous results of his butt-tossing, even as he lights up yet another fag--including me, that would be his third.   Now burning emotionally as well as physically, I am furious at this careless creep--not only is he completely unconcerned and oblivious to his actions, but it's because of greedy assholes like him that my last job was downsized, and I am where I am today--unable to even afford to buy cigarettes, let alone dream of traveling to Tokyo to try to quit my two-pack-a-day habit. Having reached the end of this day's rope, I am torn bewteen breaking into tears, or slamming the yuppie bastard over the head with the fruits of Mr. Sedaris' literary labor.   Then an eerie calm decends upon me as I remember where I was before the library. My best friend, a fellow David Sedaris lover, had offered to take me to lunch. During the meal, we chatted about the writer's work, and my friend recommended the title I was now holding, citing as his favorite an essay about bad clothing and accessories. This particular piece had, in fact, inspired him so that he had actually purchased the questionable "accessory" that was the subject of the story. Initially, I was appalled at the item, but, after sharing a few beers, he challenged me to put it on, and, full of liquid courage, I foolishly took him up on it.   Now I have realized that the cold temps, the walk to the library, the long wait at the bus stop, and the fright of my Moon Boot-meltdown have turned the former liquid courage into a heavy and imminent liquid burden, all culminating in fulfilling, and fulling full, the destiny of the accessory. Silently I sidle over to the still cell-chattering and chain-smoking suit and surreptiously placed my smoldering foot in between his Cole-Haans. Sliding out my self-defense penknife, I stab the accessory strapped to my calf, and a tepid fountain of yellow liquid gushes forth, flooding our respective footwear. Mr Big drops his cell in shock and the cigarette falls from his lips as he looks down to witness the ravages wreaked by his wrongs upon his own soaked soles. Smiling like the Grinch on Christmas Eve, I squish off and head towards home in my damp but extinguished boots, smug in my knowledge about what to do when you are engulfed in flames--and nodding to myself that, indeed, the Stadium Pal is a actually a very fine and useful accessory after all.

• I'd assume right then that it wasn't the best time to quit smoking, find the closest bag of marshmallows and at the very least hope for nice bronzed glowly "sun burnt" skin.

• It seems like most people just change their username and then agree with themselves!

• I would light a cigarette off myself! I posted this prior to reading the one below that said basically the same thing. So while my post is not copied-it is not original either, but I am standing by it stubbornly because it is mine.

• Engulfed in flames, I look over to see my friend Hugh looking at me curiously. "But aren't I the flaming one, Nicole?" He asks as he finishes arranging the flowers on the table in Normandy. It's hot today, hotter than I would like. He goes on: "Would you like some help?" "D'accord." I say. He douses me with CO2 from the red canister under the sink. I am a white ghost with a chemical beard, standing in the kitchen, staring at the burnt breakfast I still long to eat.

• If I were to be engulfed in flames I would looked through my fire fence surrounding me to see the sweet faces of my family and friends and then scream, "Why the hell aren't you helping me! I am engulfed in god damn flames! I helped you move that sectional couch, and you can't toss some water one me? What kind of friends are you! "

• Like Jane Fonda advises, I'd enjoy the burn and imagine my new, thinner thighs!!  Seriously though?  Engulfed in flames?  What the mother fucking F?  I guess I'd do what any god-fearing, angst-filled, revenge-seeking asshole would do... wrap my arms around the nearest politician or egotistical douchebag in hopes of doing something good for humanity on my way out.  

• If the Rooster were engulfed in flames I imagine he would say "Certain motherfuckers think they can fuck with my shit, but you can't kill the Rooster. You might can fuck him up some times, but, bitch, nobody kills the motherfucking Roster. You know what I'm saying?"

• Stop, drop and roll! Like my momma taught me.

• i would shrug and say " i tried".

• Upon noticing that I was engulfed in flames, I immediately became disoriented and confused.  I spent what felt like several minutes just trying to figure out how I had ended up in this situation.  Then I realized I should probably do something to get myself out of this predicament. Thoughts of water falls, oceans and peeing elephants came to mind before I finally dropped to the floor and began rolling around like a screaming, flaming turtle. Of course, the only thing I was concerned about during this event was not if I would acquire third degree burns, but if anyone had witnessed me flopping around on the floor.

• When engulfed in flames I would get the hell out of the gay bar and go to the Piggly Wiggly for some nutter butter cookies and an issue of the National Inquirer and head over to the trailerpark to visit my old friend from my caferia job days... 

• I paused for a moment, trying to recall what Mrs. Quinn, my third grade teacher once preached, during Safety Week. Don't do drugs. Don't talk to strangers. Don't run with scissors. Stop, drop, and roll? Or was it "*Don't* stop, drop, and roll."? I went with my instinct and ran like the wind, engulfed in flames. Until I tripped, fell with a thud, and rolled over, extinguishing the flames. What did Mrs. Quinn ever know anyway?

• I would mostly just hope that it was raining men that day.

• Id make sure my Mom first lit her next Virginia Slim and then promptly called 911

• I would think, "I'm going to die. Oh my god this is painful!" I would roll on the ground, think of my parents, girlfriend, that girl's ass who takes the bus w/ me everyday. I'd think of the buddhist monk who set himself on fire. Then I wouldn't think. I'd be dying. Then I'd be dead. People would observe that being engulfed in flames was a painful, quick way to die. There'd be a funeral. About 8 people would be deeply affected, and maybe ~30 people would be mildly affected to comment at work how I was a nice guy. Funny, but moody. As a ghost. I'd consider it youth in asia. And think of David Sedaris doing speed and teaching French people abt the Easter Bunny. Jesus would give me a high-five for saving my friend from drowning when we were drunk and jumped off the pier in Ocean Beach, San Diego when there was a bad rip-tide. Jesus would also be into metal. The Buddha would be there too; he'd like mysoginistic hip hop songs w/ hooks that contradict the raps. He'd tell me heaven is an illusion also. He'd also have a badass high-five. mcelmurry78 [at] yahoo.com 

• When Engulfed in Flames, I would write a series of best selling autobiographical essays. 

• Hug a package of hot dogs. #dinner

• I would employ the flames to light my last cigarette. (Because if one is truly ENGULFED....you're probably f***ed and it's OVER). Besides, although I was not fortunate enough to travel all the way to Japan in order to quit smoking, I did use a change of location to successfully quit forever.

• I think it's safe to say you've jumped out to an early lead.

• *for (not "from" in line 3)

• My sister, Sarah, and I were on our way to the grocery store in our suburban, Virginia town. It was a hot, summer day and I was reveling in the finer aspects of the season--the transition from hot coffee beverages to cold, mocking my fair-skinned, Jewish family from the burns they had already acquired, and torturing whomever happened to be in the passenger seat by refusing to turn on the air conditioning. "I can't breathe!" She had said this three times by now. "Of course you can," I replied, "you can do anything you put your mind to." "Why can't we just open the windows? You're being ridiculous." Sarah could not understand how several months at college in upstate New York could harden a person, or how many times I'd sat under my covers, clutching a cup of dining hall tea, muttering "If I ever get somewhere warm again, I'll never, ever again disrespect the weather gods who I've evidently offended." So as I drove in the 95 degree heat, sweat gradually collecting on my lower back and my eye-lids starting to droop, I smiled and kept the windows locked. "I feel like I am on fire," Sarah dramatized once more. "You just have to embrace it. I'm the driver and I enjoy being engulfed in flames."

• If engulfed in flames, I would, of course, run to the nearest Juggalo and have them shower me with Rock & Rye.

• If engulfed in flames, I would stop, drop and roll!

TotalComments: 25