It just so happened that I woke up at the crack of noon,
and was surprised to find my left arm stuck in a lightsocket.
It was a deepshade of black when I found it lodged deep within the toaster oven.
Gnomes did it.
It felt squishy like a raw meatball, and was so dry it was flaking like a friend who always bails out on big plans.
It flaked like there was no tomorrow because there were wrinkled clothes in the dryer.
So I put it to the test.
I put the arm on my shoulder to hear it say, "When was the last time you had a shower? I mean, I'm not one to judge, but damn, you smell like cats eating mice."
I gently removed it from my shoulder, and ever so caringly slammed my fingers in the door.
By this time I had passed out from the pain.
And I had seven liters of blood when I began dreaming of playing horseshoes on the White House lawn with Ayatollah Khomeini.
He made a ringer, which earned him three points.
I made a point to yell, "Sissy Shiite," everytime he tossed a shoe.
I had gained the lead with a gabillion points when he began shaking me like a baby rattle.
"Unhand me!" I said.
That's when I woke up to find my pelvis and legs missing.
My right hand couldn't tell me what my left was doing.
But it did say that my legs had taken my left arm to St. Luke's Memorial Hospital.
And also that the dish had run away with the spoon.