So it would figure.

I have stood in front of gallons of propane, combusting at 1,000 degrees.

I have lit broad swords on fire and fought my friends with them.

I once microwaved a pacemaker to see if the isotopes would cause a small nuclear explosion. (Don’t bother, nothing happens)

I have intentionally rammed a Volkswagen into a mountain side.

I have rolled a hearse at 85 miles an hour in the mountains of Utah. As a matter of fact, I have careened off of cliffs, roads, gravel paths, hillsides, and numerous other terrains in almost every type of vehicle known to man. I have done far too much careening for one lifetime. There should be some sort of support group for that. Careeners Anonymous.

All these things, and do you want to know during what activities I sustained serious injuries while engaging in?

1. Sitting on the couch watching a movie

2. Attending a speech and debate meet. What kind of cold shit is that? How the hell many people have ever been wounded at a debate meet? I mean, you are basically surrounded by kids so meek that they consider the D&D players a ‘Tough Crowd’. Pretty much the only risk you run at one of those things is that some nerd might topple a filing cabinet full of magazine clipping onto you. Yes, there are people so incredibly dorky they haul filing cabinets around.

I’ll start with the speech meet. It was the day after Halloween in 1997. I was asked to come back and judge a speech and debate meet. As you may or may not be aware, judging a debate meet is insidiously dull. You are surrounded by people who are either defending topics so boring that the 700 Club wouldn’t touch them, or reading Drama or Poetry, both of which suck. The only way you can make poetry any more sucky or insufferable than it already is, is to have a highschool student dispense it, so basically you have to make this endeavor interesting.

I usually did this by trying to make the competitors as uncomfortable as possible. Sometimes I would just stare at them with a look on my face that was somewhere between total disbelief, unbridled disgust, and utter confusion, as though they were speaking to me in a foreign language, but I was somehow processing just enough of what they said to understand that they were advocating the use of retarded infants as sexual devices. Sometimes I would just watch them for the first 40 or so seconds of their presentation, shake my head, write something in large, scrawling letters on their personal form, then slam my pen down and spend the rest of the time staring at the clock trying to look as pissed off/revolted as possible. I like to think that, somewhere in the world, someone has severe public speaking issues because of me. Maybe I even caused a speech impediment!

Anyway, after a few rounds of scarring the future of America, I decided to wander the halls aimlessly. This was partially out of habit from being in high school. While I did go to high school religiously, I never really went IN (or if I did go in my time was evenly divided between maintaining a near constant state of teenage erectile over-functioning or wandering the halls with big red marks on my forehead, the kind you get when you have been in a state of deep, deep sleep on your desk for at least 25 minutes), nor did I always go to the one that the state assigned me. A lot of times I went to ones that had better looking girls, or I just went to Taco Bell. Sometimes I’d tape fireworks to the hood of my car and light it on fire while driving around. Are you sensing a running theme in my life here yet?

So I am wandering the halls of this particular school which happened to have an elevator. Said elevator also happened to have one of those trap doors on the roof like you see in the movies. You can see where this is going. At any rate, it took me about 12 seconds to realize that I had never stood on top of a moving elevator before. I won’t bore you with the exact details, but suffice it to say, approximately 45 seconds later I was spewing blood from my wrist at an alarming rate. Now, bear in mind this is the day after Halloween. I am wearing black eyeliner and a trench coat, walking down the halls, spewing blood from my wrist. I looked like a really bad, really tasteless, and alarmingly cheap Halloween costume.

Me- “I need help! I cut my wrist open!”

Random person – “That’s a GREAT getup! You look exactly like one of those stupid Goths! You even have the bullshit suicide thing going on! How’d you get the blood to ooze like that!?”

Incident two was the other night when I cam into direct contact with THIS-

Yep, look closely, those are little pieces of me on that blade!

I was scoring some sheet metal for a replica knife blade when I ignored the common rule of cutting AWAY from your body. The knife slipped and made a very nice cut directly into my leg. SNIKT! Wolverine style, I am now seeing things that are normally inside of me. This now means that [info]zombienurse is driving me to the hospital, where I am about to make a scene that is probably going to haunt the E.R. admissions nurse until the day she dies. Imagine if you will, me, lumbering towards you at midnight in a trench coat with no pants on, clutching what appears to be my groinal regions and blood on my hands, screaming unintelligibly. I looked like some psycho pervert goth version of Quasimoto.

I always assumed that the emergency room was somewhat laid back unless someone came in spewing blood, at which point dozens of highly trained professionals sprung to action, assessing the situation and applying instantaneous treatment to ease your suffering, but now I see that even if you do come in spewing blood they give you about the same response time as a fire drill in an opium den. Seriously, these people move slower than retards doing long division.

If my sewing up were a freaking pizza, it would have been free.

They also loaded me up on a bunch of really useless advice before I left.

“Be sure to keep it clean”. Thanks guys, good thing you mentioned that because I was going to go home, climb into my tub and crap on it first thing! So no watersports for me this weekend is what you are angling at?

“Keep the wound elevated above your heart level as much as possible.” Another winner from guy with a questionable doctorate! Let’s see, since the wound is on my thigh, exactly how much of the time do you recommend I spend standing on my head exactly? You fucking twat waffle.

I did make sure to cover some important details before I left though, specifically this conversation-

Me – “So, clarify this for me: How long until I can engage in, how do I say this...strenuous activity?”

Dr. Whatever – “Well, that depends on what you are doing, different activities are going to carry different levels of...”

Me – [in my most sincere, practical voice] “No, you see what my primary concern is, how long until I can romp again?”

Dr. Whatever – “Well, probably a day or two”

Me – “So then, what’s the position on positions? I mean, can I do it doggy style still or should I just lay back and let her do all the work? I feel kind of bad doing that, I like to pull my weight you know.”

Dr. Whatever – “Uhm...well...I mean, don’t bend your legs to much and you should be fine.”

Me – [scratching my chin thoughtfully] “So keep her elevated is what your saying?”

Dr. Whatever – “I guess so...” [suddenly sounding somewhat concerned] “how did you say this injury happened again”

My only regret at this point aside from stabbing myself to begin with, is that I didn’t just tell people it was from a knife fight. Man that would be sooooo cool.

In other news, Halloween weekend was a non-stop thrillride of both unbridled pleasures and irritation. I got to go out and be around the general public which sometimes carries all the charm of being a circus freak, yet none of the illustrious pay. More on that particular situation soon...