The Man Who Screwed Too Much, A Cautionary Tale

Once there was a man named Mr. Phillips who screwed too much. He didn’t care how, where, or when. He loved screwing so much that his whole life was full of screwing. Sometimes, when he thought he might give up screwing, he turned to nailing, but that didn’t give him the same pleasure as a good, long screw. Screw Goethe, he thought, there is an alternative to being a hammer or an anvil. He screwed happily all day and long into the nights. Screwing was his entire life. It gave him purpose. It gave him pleasure.

One dark day, Mr. Phillips realized he could no longer screw. Every single surface of his house was riddled with screws. Mr. Phillips had screws in his drywall, ceilings, window frames, cupboards, moldings, and even in his refrigerator. Then he decided to sell his house to screw the new homeowners. Haha, thought he, there’s nothing like a good screw. That house, thought he, will last forever with all those screws, so I’ll charge a premium. He made a good profit. Mr. Phillips up and moved his family to New Orleans so he could find a new place to screw.

Mr. Phillips didn't find New Orleans to his liking, however. It was a place with a serious building material shortage. Hurricane Katrina caused such a building boom that there were simply no screws to be found. What a screwy situation, he thought. He was terribly disappointed.

Carpal tunnel set in, and he found his wrists twisting, twisting in his sleep. Have you ever seen a hose that gets all twisted up? That’s what started to happen to his arms. Have you ever seen the movie Edward Scissorhands? That’s what started to happen to his hands, but with screws, not scissors. Mr. Phillips tossed and turned at night, dreaming of screwing. During the day, he listened obsessively to the local oldies station.

Let’s twist again
like we did last summer
Let’s twist again
like we did last year

What are you doing, asked his wife, who was sick and tired of all his screwing.

Dancing, Mr. Phillips replied with a steely look.

You don’t look well, she said.

He went to the doctor. He was ashen grey. His back was bent over, and his shoulders were pivoting in their sockets. His head pounded, and he felt as if he had been stripped of his utility, his very raison d’etre.

It must be stress, declared the doctor, and prescribed some anti-biotics, just in case he was wrong. Come see me again in six weeks.

Mr. Phillips could soon barely think of anything but screwing. He found himself banging into doors, kicking walls, rubbing up against rickety chair legs. His communication skills grew rusty, and he gave off speaking with his wife altogether. Screw her, he thought. She doesn’t understand my needs. When the radio ceased to give him pleasure and instead just emitted a series of tinny sounds that made his fillings ache, he even stopped listening to his music.

Then, one day, the mail arrived. In it was a bill from the doctor. Five hundred dollars for a 15-minute visit? And the doctor hadn’t done anything?

And what was this note? His insurance coverage hadn’t yet started? He was responsible for the whole, entire fee?

Mr. Phillips had been screwed.

In frustration, Mr. Phillips, banged one contorted hand against his living room wall. Sadly, because of the lack of screws, the pictures fell down and the walls of the entire dwelling shook and rumbled and crashed to the ground with a loud imploding thud.

Mr. Phillips had been screwed.

If that had been me, if that had been you, we surely would have yelled and screamed and tried to get some kind of retribution from the universe. Mr. Phillips was not like us, though. He felt a warm feeling coursing through his cold, stiff body. His face flushed and he started to tremble. Slowly, a smile spread across his face and his pounding headache started to dissipate.

Mr. Phillips had been screwed.

He sighed contentedly. A beam fell from the ceiling and knocked him straight on the head. He fell through the floor and was stuck there, wedged in between two boards in the subflooring. Swooning, he closed his eyes. He felt spent, used. His head was filled with bliss. He felt solid and purposeful again. He rested, immovable, anchored.

Word is he’s still there today, holding his ground.

(Image courtesy of Jacci Howard Bear http://desktoppub.about.com/)