The Story Behind the Sign

A many few years ago there was a night spent in a drinking establishment with a handful of co-workers (the story begins).  A many few beers had gone down and we were walking back to the house of the nearest member of the intox-o-me-cated (mine).  As we were walking I noticed a sign stuck in the grass betwixt sidewalk and street.

Although I dis-recall what the sign was proclaiming (which may have more to do with beers than years) I remember it was just like a realtor's temporary signage—black metal angle iron frame jammed in the ground; top-edge about waist high.  So I said..."this sign is hil-air-i-ous.  I want it."  And I began to reach down.  My friend stopped me.  Instead of don't-steal-the-sign he said, "Let the strongest man here get that for you."  Then he bent, gripped the bottom edge of the metal sign, and lifted with his knees—not his back—in a practiced clean-and-jerk motion.

The sign didn't budge a millimeter.  Of course he sliced all eight fingers; six to the bone and the two pinkies only half-as-deep.

I only retrieved this memory from long-long term storage once I saw this (photo-shopped) picture while poaching for my last digital rendering:  sharp edges.

Epilogue:  we got him to the hospital, he got stitched and bandaged, his wife hated me from that night forward, because—obviously—it was all my fault, and...I still can't recall what the sign said.  I think it was something like:  PORN KILLS.