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