ATTEMPT TO WARM BACKSIDE GOES UP IN FLAMES

There’s something magical about a rare snowstorm in Southeast Texas. By “magical,” I mean wildly inconvenient for anyone who doesn’t own an ice scraper or comprehends that bridges freeze first. But on the eve of the great frost, I decided to embrace the novelty of winter with a cigar, an adult beverage, and the smug satisfaction of knowing I was better prepared than most. My patio was my stage, and I was the hero in my snowy fairytale. Little did I know I was also the villain.

I started the Sunday evening like any civilized Texan, braving sub-40 temperatures by cranking up the propane heater and positioning it at a safe distance because safety first, right? I had my whiskey in one hand and a fine cigar in the other, and I was wrapped in a jacket that had seen better days but still made me feel like a rugged outdoorsman. The weather app promised snow by Tuesday morning, so I leaned back in my chair, puffing my cigar like I was the king of some frost-covered hill

.And then it hit me. Not the snow—yet—but that creeping chill you only get when your backside has officially declared mutiny against the rest of your body. My butt was freezing. Like “park bench in an ice storm” freezing. So naturally, I did what any rational adult would do: I scooted my chair closer to the heater. And by “closer,” I mean I basically parallel-parked myself against it.

Now, in my defense, the propane heater was humming along perfectly, casting its warm glow and whispering sweet nothings of comfort. I figured, “Hey, why not stand up and really let this baby work its magic?” So I rose like a phoenix—spoiler alert: the opposite of foreshadowing—and turned my backside to the heat. I even did that little shimmy you do when you’re trying to thaw your buns. It was glorious.

For about five seconds.

That’s when I heard it. The sound. A faint crackle, like bacon sizzling in a pan. Except this bacon was me. It took another second for the smell to hit—burnt fabric mixed with what I can only describe as “regret.” I looked down to see my jacket sleeve smoldering, a fiery ember of betrayal glowing on the hem. A quick pat-down confirmed that my pants were also joining the festivities.

Cue the panic.I threw my whiskey glass onto the patio table, nearly knocking over the cigar. With one hand, I slapped at my jacket like I was auditioning for a fire safety PSA. With the other, I swatted at my rear end, which, by this point, was a full-on bonfire. Of course, the heater—ever the overachiever—was still doing its job, so every move I made seemed to fan the flames.

For a split second, I thought about stopping, dropping, and rolling, but then I remembered the last time the neighbor’s dog mistook me for a chew toy after I lay on the ground. So, instead, I dropped my pants and drawers to the patio floor, screaming colorful expletives that I’m sure the neighbors now use as bedtime stories for their children.

The good news? I eventually extinguished myself. The bad news? My pride was the only thing more scorched than my jacket. Oh, and my backside. Let’s not forget the literal burns—second-degree, as the emergency room nurse cheerfully informed. She didn’t even try to hide her smirk when I explained how I “grilled my own buns.”In the aftermath, my patio looked like a very unsuccessful barbecue scene. My cigar was abandoned, my whiskey glass empty (thanks to my dramatic flailing), and my heater stood there, smug like a pyromaniac accomplice. On the other hand, I learned a valuable lesson about respecting personal space—especially when it comes to open flames.

So now, as the snow prepares to fall tonight gently on my slightly bruised ego, I sit here, typing this story in a pair of sweatpants that will never go near that heater. And if anyone asks why my backside looks like a map of Texas with burn marks, I’ll say, “It’s a long story, but it’s lit.”

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