Ode to George Foreman's Hands

that put the whoopin’ on grown ass men,
that were held high by seventy-six referees,

that squared up in schoolyards, that beat
and bloodied and burglarized,

that were coarse as oak bark, burly as a black bear’s paws,
hands that made fists hard as a copper mace,

that broke the dead weight of heavy bags and knocked
trainers across the ring like traffic cones,

hands that mowed Smokin’ Joe down in two rounds,
that staggered Kenny Norton
into the ropes and the halogen beyond,

hands that palmed gold medals and shook presidents’ hands
and gripped the leather steering wheels of Rolls Royce’s,
hands that lobbed meat into tigers’ jaws,

that pummeled Ali’s muscled midsection
until they could pummel no more,
hands that met quicker hands
and struggled to lift their own bulky body
off the canvas,

hands that refused to close into fists any longer,
that leafed through the silky pages of a Baptist bible
in the warm shoulder of Texas,

hands that carried five boys and five girls to their beds,
that stroked a calico cat’s tail,

hands that held the empty river of a woman’s back,
hands that matured and greyed
like good shoe leather,

that signed contracts, closed electric grill-tops,
and posed under the scrutinizing lights of television studios,

old hands that mingled in church congregations,
that passed out bowls of minestrone in Harris county,

old hands that held the pads for young fists
in Houston community centers,

old hands that held other old hands tremored from brain disease,
old hands that missed the snug fit of horse-hair gloves,
old hands that still could crack, that could still put
a whoopin’ on,

old hands that found the half-moon of a young man’s mouth
at forty-five, that held the heavyweight title once again.

I also had an experience with the hands of George Foreman that was religious in nature. Let me explain.

My name is Berhardt Illych Goats and I am a businessman. During the heyday of the George Foreman Grill, I went after this man to represent my line of Civil War Action Figures. While I was selling the idea of investing in these action figures, which I had no intention of ever manufacturing (thus really cleaning up off the investment money before dissolving the company and moving to another state), I needed someone who had some celebrity status. And since George Foreman is a notable Englishman, he could also help me make some money off the Brits through opportunities to invest in English Civil War action figures that I planned on duping Brits into investing in. This was a win-win situation for everyone involved. I could give George a slice of the profits and he could help me bring in more investors for my scheme.

I met him in a hotel lobby and followed him around, wearing just a ratty bathrobe with absolutely nothing on underneath and NO bathrobe tie, until he went to the bathroom. Then I went in there and stood as close to him as I could, showing I was unafraid. He threatened me, telling me to "step off" and I raised my X-Man type hand and showed him I could counter any punch he could throw. Then he stuffed my head in the urinal and flushed no fewer than sixteen times before walking out of the men's room. I never saw him again.

I had the imprint of his hands on my neck, where he had tried to squeeze the life out of me as I explained my plans to him and told him that I was an important, ranking member of the Straight White Men's Cultural Center of Baltimore. Once I went to a company and showed them the hand marks and told them "make hands like these out of silicone for me please" they were giddy with delight. I was ready to being the next phase of my important, meaningful life as a businessman.

Once they took the molds, I spent a half hour making my moves on the receptionist. At first, I hung over the reception desk and really got in her face, telling her what an adequate lover I was. When she dismissed me with a wave, I jumped over the desk and was about to go to town on her when Edgar, the mold making man, came out of the back.

"Did you make my molds? I want my George Foreman hands so I can put them on a shelf and tell people that I cut them off the man myself," I said unto Edgar.

He did not have the molds or my hands. He was holding a shotgun (which I like to call a "shotfun") and pointing it at me. "Get out of my place of business, cocksucker," he said before firing a warning shot just to the east of my head.

"What? I'm trying to get my groove on here," I told him, pointing to the receptionist.

"Back away from her or my next shot will take off your head."

I started laughing, so he fired and blew off my head. Thankfully, due to experiments done on me in Germany in the early 1940s by my sadistic adoptive father, a new head was able to quickly grow in its place. Edgar was befuddled. I began laughing maniacally, telling him, "I am a representative of everything2.com brand website and I will not be trifled with." That caused him to straighten up, hearing such a well-respected name, and knowing my involvement with it rubber stamped all my supposedly "improper behavior." I will behave as I wish. I am a straight white man.

I snatched the shotgun away from him and blew his receptionist away. Then I marched him into the back room and held the gun on him while he finished work on the hands I was now no longer paying him for until he finished. After I took the hands, I sued him and his company for sixteen million dollars for my pain and suffering due to the hassles I had been put through in his lobby. I was awarded the money, and the judge tore the man a new one for putting my through what he put me through. She then gave me a high-five and told me, "Behr, you are a good person and a good friend."

And now I have these wonderful George Foreman hands on my mantle and I tell lots of stories about them to partially interested people.

I wrote this little song about them, which I call, Ode to George Foreman's Hands:

I have George Foreman's hands

On my mantle, on my mantle

I do things with them at night

In my bedroom, in my bedroom

I love to feel those hands

On my body, on my body

I put them back each morning

On the mantle, on the mantle

George Foreman, what can I say
to your poster on the wall
that I haven’t said already?

It was on that day, Oh George
you were on TV
and all the grown-ups looking
at the grill you’re selling

But none of them, Oh George!
ever stopped to think
about your hands
those hands
with soft manners
but not hiding
strong phalanges.

George, Oh George
I was only but a child
watching old reruns
airing on TV
taped on VHS
I never knew you, yet
You spoke into my heart

When I think of you
I think of hands
that used to stop crime on its tracks
against robbers
against perverts
against jewel thieves
against international black market arms dealers
against jaywalkers

With strong thumb and fingers four
a divine quintet
did you ever knew, ahem
Rosie Palms and her family?
How could someone saint as you
ever defile himself in such an act?
Tell me George, how did you
ever find release?
How can someone in your state
be so cool about their fate?

Years have passed, and yet
Even though my mind’s a haze
I still remember you
and see your message everywhere I go
I see your power in Captain Planet
and your size in Power Rangers
your wealth in Duck Tales
your prowess in TMNT
your brains in Bill Nye
your mutant genes in X-Men

George, Oh George
how could someone be
nostalgic for a place I’ve never visited
a time I never lived in
and a persona I have never met?

Yet in my heart of hearts
and in my hand of hands
your caressing hands
soothe my soul
and massage my feet

To George Foreman’s hands
may they never know arthritis

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You know the drill: Cult of Done Manifesto, point five. I saw the title and just had to write these words out of my mind to make space for more important matters. Now my soul can rest in peace