The World According to JP

Me neither, but it was one of the weird things that ran through my mind the other day.

What would it be like? Here's my take:

It all starts so harmlessly. You slip and bump your hip on the first step and you think "That's gonna leave a mark....wonder if anyone saw me fall". You thank the good Lord that your Minute Maid Lemonade fell the opposite way, on the landing, and figure you can get the papers from your briefcase reassembled with relative ease.

But when you bank off the wall and take the second flight, well, that's when the fear sets in. Not "Will I ever see my family again?" fear, but "I've read about this" kind of fear. We all know some poor schlep who woke up in the middle of the night, attempted to go downstairs to get a glass of milk, fell down the steps and in the morning was so dead the dogs ate his balls for breakfast without a second thought. That kind of fear.

By the fourth floor, and you're still alive, the fear subsides because, well, it's been 4 floors and they're not going to be all that different from here on out. Your mindset is more of "What ISN'T going to be marked??" and you also wonder if you'll go so far as to be completely nude at the end of your descent. By the sixth floor, your tie is off and your shirt is ripped.

Around the 15th floor, you think while still tumbling "I ain't goin' out dis way." Anger ensues. "If I ever meet the person who first said 'Ass over Teakettle', I will fight them", you think as gravity acts....well, like it's supposed to. Spiraling through 16 and 17, your body reminds you of that sophomore you dead-horsed after the Fall Break kegger, although she was a little less bloody. The sight of your ear impaled on a thumb tacked poster makes you wince.

Thoughts of Mommy cutting your hair as a bawling six-year-old consumes floors 23 and 24, and you consider a small nap as the anger has taken a backseat to thoughts of riding out the "delicate" cycle in your wife's dryer. Of course, you're still getting your hair cut by Mom in there. Things are really starting to meld together, including your knee and your eyeball.

You wonder what sort of speed you've amassed at around floor 35, and consider yourself a more modern day Chuck Yeager, and even consider who, these days, is filling Theresa Earnhardt's vaginal cavity. And if they wear a helmet and a head restraint while doing so. Is a snicker even possible?

Yes. But barely.

Floor 50 is where the analogies get pretty intense. The thought of your body sailing through the air, like an unwanted ham from a fourth floor apartment on Lombard Street in San Francisco comes to mind. You envy the fact the ham has no arms or legs, although it has endured the curing process. Touche', ham.

Hi, 64. Thanks for providing a happy home to the broken shards of fire extinguisher housing glass. Enjoy that arm.

75 and still alive, although you've taken more hits than Jerry Garcia, Robin Ventura and Buster Douglas combined. You long for just the stairs, and loathe the walls. Damn the geometry. If you had a tongue, you'd chew gum to help break the cochleal pressure.

You fight the urge to sleep by realizing that your carcass sounds almost exactly like a full bladder slapping up against an unfinished wall. Whomp, there it is.

You can also guess how it ends, although the lack of motion provides a welcome relief, actually. Admittedly, it's a well below average experience. I recommend the elevator.

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