Most kids in 10th grade give speeches about normal things like “My Favorite Vacation” or “Why Reading Is Important.” Not me. No, I came into 10th grade walked into Speech Class like he was about to headline KISS Alive IV: The Public-School Edition.
My teacher — Mr.C was a pretty cool guy, he was hip, wore vans and had a restaurant on the side. He was also deathly afraid of fire — already looked like he was reconsidering his career, his life choices, and possibly his religion. He had the same expression the MST3K robots get when they realize they’re about to watch another 1950s safety film. It should be noted that I got a D minus on my last speech that I did. I did a speech about explicit rap lyrics and maybe played 2 live crew” We want some Pussy” to loud. Sometimes I held grunges.
I began my speech with the swagger of a man who had watched Bill Nye, Beakman’s World, and exactly one episode of MacGyver and decided I was now a freelance chemist.
“Household chemicals,” I declared, “can be very dangerous.”
The class perked up. Mr. C knew something special will be happening soon. Someone whispered, “He brought a bag. Oh no. He brought a BAG.”
And oh yes. I brought props.
ACT I: THE HELLFIRE JEANS OF DESTINY
I grabbed a can of hairspray like I was summoning the spirit of 80s glam metal. Then — in a move that would’ve made Nikki Sixx say, “Kid, tone it down” — I sprayed my jeans.
My teacher made a noise like a dial‑up modem having a panic attack.
I flicked a lighter dramatically, I lit them on fire and proceeded to walk around talking about the hazards of not paying attention to your surroundings. it was epic!!!!!
The class gasped. My teacher aged seven years. Someone in the back whispered, “This is how the school burns down.”
ACT II: THE LYSOL HAND OF DOOM
Next, I grabbed a can of Lysol and held out my hand like I was about to summon a demon from a forgotten He‑Man episode.
I reenacted the Paul Stanley “hand‑on‑fire” pose from the Heaven’s on Fire video — except instead of a stadium full of fans, I had 27 horrified teenagers and one teacher silently bargaining with the universe.
I sprayed my hands and saw my teacher just horrified and unable to speak to tell me not to….so since I took his silence as approval, I lit them on fire, and I think at one point made devil horns with my hands that were on fire.
ACT III: THE SIX‑FOOT FLAME
Then came the finale.
The moment that would go down in school history. The moment that would be whispered about by janitors for decades.
I pulled out:
- a can of Gumout carburetor cleaner, which shoots a 6-foot flame
- a bottle of Binaca breath spray, to spray after the gumout, you know to freshen up the room that will become dark and smokey
- and the confidence of a man who had never once considered consequences.
I held them up like I was presenting the Ark of the Covenant to Indiana Jones.
“This,” I said, “is how fast things can flare up.”
I had asked the class to back up so that I could do the final demo.
Then with the lighter I sprayed it twice, producing a huge fireball that people could feel, the heat was hot and the flame was tremendous. I think one kid said,” this is how we die” It was six feet of pure, uncut chaotic energy, a shimmering pillar that looked like it had wandered off the set of a 1980s heavy‑metal music video and gotten lost in a public school.
The Six‑Foot Flame wasn’t just a moment. It was a legend. And I was the kid who summoned it.
My teacher confiscated:
- the hairspray
- the Lysol
- the Gumout
- the Binaca
- the lighter
He gave me a F for the speech…….Little did he know that I was planning my next speech about the phenom we called phone sex with the 976 numbers. To be Continued
Funk & The Flipside 