Navel Oranges
He stretches the holes in his ears. At first they are the size of pencil erasers. Then dimes. Quarters. Eventually, a navel orange.
He pierces his nose and stretches it too. Then his eyebrow. Both sides of his lip. His anti-eyebrow. A corset piercing down one of his legs. After a few years they are all stretched out so he can carry navel oranges with him everywhere. Sitting in the movie theater, he can have a snack. Driving down the road, he flicks orange peel onto the interstate and sucks the sticky juice from his hands.
He figures he is healthier than the average American, who instead tries to fit Big Macs and fries and M+M's into all their orifices. Millions of men in suits and women in gym clothes trying to smash semi-sweet chocolate into their pores and grind French fries down into their ears.
"There's no room for all that," he thinks, pulling an orange from the hole in his nipple.
He plants an orange tree in his backyard and slides one of the branches through the hole in his eyebrow. Then he waits. And waits.
"This tree is growing," he thinks.