Dave Erlewine
Garibaldi
My friend Carl is about to attest that I'm not crazy. He's hunched over the pool table, reading my affidavit.
Carl and my brother were great friends and after my brother's funeral last month we sort of started hanging out. I don't think he'd challenge my characterization.
The thing he's about to sign takes seven pages of legalese (diarrhea of the mouth, the lawyer called it, after I paid) to say I have pinpointed the nodule in my brain responsible for my stutter. It further makes clear that since no one else is brave enough, I am going to get rid of it.
For 37 years the nodule I've taken to calling Garibaldi has rendered me a near mute, someone unable to just yesterday ask a pimply, nametagged kid the whereabouts of the Worcestershire sauce.
Once Carl signs the affidavit, he will hold my head still while I inject a high-powered needle at very rapid speed through my skull, decimating Garibaldi.
Then I will call my wife and tell her I won't need any more pep talks and she can come back to live with me.
END
