I found another sack of hands and feet as I rolled through the woods. If you'll allow me to paraphrase the ol' 'Too Many Cooks Spoil The Broth' thang, which came first, the wheelchair bet or the sack of limbs? (Completely leaving aside the changing of the name of the train station). Well, wheelchair bet kinda comes first cos I was rolling along, and I just used the sack of limbs as an attention-seeking little bit to seek your attention, and perhaps make you think I had some weird amputation thing going on in my life. "Sorry doesn't cut the mustard with me, young man."
Y'know how you borrow someone's glasses or crutches? Why not wheelchairs? Against her will, I picked up a disabled friend and placed her on the sofa (she says I threw her, but she was bleeding, so I wouldn't trust her judgement), then I rolled around the room enjoying the new experience. Like a mountain she was piqued, like a target with a speech impediment she was miffed, like Ivan Rate writing his first name as an initial she was irate, like a condom glued on to a penis that can't cope with the pressure after a couple of weeks she was pissed off. She knew exactly what she needed to say to hurt me, and did. Bitch. Then she bet me half an atom that I couldn't go 24 hours in a wheelchair. I shot back with the bet that she couldn't go 24 hours without a wheelchair, she buckled and my stairs clause was added.
Off I toddled for a long roll through the woods, with my portable plastic step in case a nasty fallen log got in the way. A nasty fallen log got in the way, I jumped out on to my portable plastic step, and quickly fashioned a ramp to roll over, Beethoven. (It's a wheelchair with large cupboard space, one shelf fully devoted to planes and other woodworking tools). I had banked on saving time by moving the ramp over to the other side once done, but being the retard that I am - and as much as you want to argue the opposite, please allow me my moment of inflated ego - I forgot when I reached the giddy heights of the top of the log. Upon hitting the ground hard and rolling down a small hill, I found myself staring at a bulging sack. The wheelchair must have followed me down the hill as I felt a rubber wheel smack me on the back of the head. When I woke up, my hand was asleep; the wheelchair had come to rest on it. Tragic. Truly tragic.
Don't worry though, cos it got better. And now we come to the sack of hands and feet. I opened it up in case it was a sack of kittens, but closed it after seeing the hands and feet. I didn't like to pry; it could be a collection of marzipan hands and feet accompanied by a raspberry coulis put in a sack in the middle of the woods for a private reason. If people want to do that, who am I to potentially foil their fiendish plot, whatever it may be? On the off-chance that it really was a bag of hands and feet, their owners would notice them missing soon enough and contact the police. The story would make it into the local newspapers, or even the TV news; then I'd speak up and let them know what I knew. Nothing's happened so marzipan it was. Then because I got bored and had done enough, I went home. I managed 24 hours in the wheelchair, but only because I had been unconscious for eighteen of those hours, four hours had been spent making the ramp and the rest of the time trying to roll back up the hill that seemed a lot bigger from the bottom. Speaking of big bottoms, I've got stuff to do, so I'll catch y'all later.