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I should have died, and this is why...

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Funny things old people did as kids [Sep. 14th, 2006|12:04 am]
I should have died, and this is why...

While this doesn't directly involve anything I've ever done (well, I posted a story on the second page as Raguleader), this is hillarious stuff about dangerous things old people did for fun as kids.

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(no subject) [Aug. 11th, 2006|03:19 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

This is remarkably similar to a story of jspurlin's, but it's still pretty funny.

When I started college, I attended a little community college in East Texas. Very small college. They had one women's dorm and one men's dorm. The men's dorms each had two beds built into the wall on wooden platforms that housed a couple giant drawers each. For "desks," you had a couple square tables that looked like card table, but more sturdy. And there were two wooden chairs. Near the door to the room were a couple "closets" that had no doors and just a shelf and a bar to hang clothes from. That's it. With the cinderblock walls, tiled floor and single overhead fluorescent light, it felt very much like a prison. Except the windows opened. A little.

Anyway, in an effort to my my prison dorm room a little more comfortable, I brought up an old green recliner that a friend of the family was getting rid of. Terribly comfortable. You could also scoot it up to the tables and it fit under them perfectly well, so I didn't have to use the splinters-in-your-ass wooden chair. Most of the time, though, I kept the chair right in the middle of the room between the two beds so that I could watch television (on the shelf above a closet) while I read my homework. Or, more accurately, while I played Nintendo on the television on the shelf above the closet and ignored my homework.

One afternoon I find myself sitting in the chair actually reading some homework (for a change of pace, I suppose) all reclined out nearly horizontal, and I hear this cracking sound. I look around, but nothing seems out of place. Back to my reading. I hear it again, and it seems to be coming from above me. I look up, but the only thing that's above me is the fluorescent light. Then there's another, louder crack, and I see the light fixture swinging down from the ceiling straight at me. When you're scared, you can do amazing things. What I did was somehow jump/roll/teleport horizontally from that chair onto one of the adjacent beds. I ended up on the bed in such a way that I was watching as the light fixture swung right through the space I'd been sitting and smacked the top of the recliner where my head had been resting.

I sat there a few minutes watching the light swing back and for and letting myself calm down before calling campus security (Officer Gee.... we only had one rent-a-cop... told you it was a small college) and bitching about my murderous lighting. He came out, went "huh" a couple times and said he'd have maintenance fix it. They fixed it in about a week. I also never sat under that light again.
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The Wheelbarrow Story (since it hasn't been posted in here yet) [Aug. 11th, 2006|02:39 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

So, when everyone's little, it was lucky that a bunch of us didn't die, or just Darwin ourselves with stupid shit, right?

I had a buddy that DAMN NEAR physically Darwined himself, when we were in middle school. Didn't die, no danger of dying, just... ow.

My friend Drew and Cam (Drew's brother) had a house near mine at home, and the entire area we live on is on a giant limestone plateau. Like, until you hit water, it's limestone. OK. so they had this problem with the sewer in their house, and they're fixing it. So there are piles of limestone and dirt and rocks, every ten feet or so, and this giant hole in the backyard, right.

There is a wheelbarrow next to the hole. And Cam decides he's going to fuck around with the wheelbarrow, and run through the backyard. Now, there's a wall, and tree roots, and all sorts of obstacles and shit in the yard, right?

So he grabs the wheelbarrow, and RUNS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER around the yard.

Well, for like, thirty seconds. WHAM.

hits a tree root, flips the wheelbarrow. And on the way to flipping, the wheelbarrow NAILS HIM right IN THE NUTS.

So. The wheelbarrow is empty, and Cam is sorta... galloping around the yard, holding his nuts. (Place both your hands on your crotch, and try to jog without bending your knees. That.) So that goes on for a few minutes, right. We are positively dying laughing. Can't breathe.

Anyone who's ever been hit in the nuts knows, several things occur to you.
One, you have this "you motherfucker!" attitude toward whoever hit you in the nuts--girl, boy, giant-ass-dog, whoever.
Two, you'd really like to vomit.

SO. half an hour or so goes by, and we go back in the backyard, Cam, Drew, me, and their sisters.

And Cam gets this look in his eye. That "you piece of shit, I'll show you." At the wheelbarrow.

Yeah. That's a good plan.

He picks up the wheelbarrow, right. Not having learned his lesson, at all, he decides running with it is a good idea.

Now, mind you, the wheelbarrow was FULL OF DIRT AND ROCKS last time. Now, since it emptied itself when Cam flipped it... It's much lighter.

SO he runs, again, like a FUCKING MADMAN, around the backyard. For, like, a minute.

*CLANG* *wheelbarrow flips* "uh-oh."

(and yes, it nailed him in the nuts again.)

he goes in the house, right. We're, by this time, FUCKING LOSING IT. Again, Can't. Breathe.

His dad comes out. Apparently he, um, sorta tore something. That needs stitches.

(I'll reiterate in little words: TORE. THE. SACK. OW.)

Later in the week, I was over at their place, and... yeah. you know how people have those lil "donut pillows" for spine conditions and things like that? He was sitting on a soft pillow, VERY gingerly.

We still laugh at Cam for that.

(And he has a son, now, so... apparently everything still works.)
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(no subject) [Aug. 11th, 2006|02:23 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

[mood |nostalgicnostalgic]

Because I'm still bored, here's another story: "The Time I Thought My Mom Was Going to Kill Me and Bury My Body in a Shallow Grave in the Countryside."

This happened at some point between the ages of six and eight, I think. I used to think my cousin Stevie was the coolest person ever. He told me a joke that I can't quite remember now, but the punchline was "Johnny Fuckitfaster!" "I'm trying, I'm trying!" I didn't get the joke until much later, because I was a very sheltered child. Anyway, a few days later, I was supposed to be cleaning my room. At this point, I became posessed with the idea that writing the word "FUCK" on the wall in purple crayon and letters a foot high was an absolutely magnificent idea. So I do so. I think it was about this point that my mom walks in to make sure I'm cleaning and not under the bed reading, as I was wont to do. I can remember the scene clear as day: me with the crayon in my hand, Mom going absolutely still and her eyes bugging out, getting the look that terrifies me to this day, and then it slowly dawning on me that I'd done a Very Bad Thing.

It was at then that I decided that judging by the look on Mom's face, I wasn't long for this world. I did the only thing I could think of: I threw down the crayon and started screaming and crying, "I don't even know what it means!" My mom grabbed my arm and dragged me, crying and terrified to the car, which was when I became absolutely convinced that she was going to drag me out to the country, kill me, and bury me in a shallow ditch. (My dad watches a lot of A&E, so I was quite familiar with the concept.) We drove in silence except for me bawling in terror, and suddenly we were in front of the church that my family attends. I remember being simultaneously confused and very, very thankful because Mom wouldn't kill me in a church, right? Mom drags me into the church, tosses me into the confessional booth, and screams, "TELL THE PRIEST WHAT YOU DID!" I can't really remember anything after that. I'm assuming that the flood of relief I felt upon learning that I was to live and get off relatively light made everything after that inconsequential.

(Crossposted to my LJ)
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why massive sleep-dep is a terrible, terrible thing. [Aug. 11th, 2006|02:22 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

[Current Location |woooorrrrk. for an hour and a half, yet.]
[mood |tiredsleep dep, cha cha cha...]
[music |Magic Carpet Ride, in my head]

So everyone's had those days, where they should have slept, and they didn't, due to being excited, right.

When I got my Aggie Ring, I was afraid the line would be MASSIVE. so the night before, I stayed up. It's college, no big thing, right.

You must understand (and many of you do) that Ring Delivery Day is... the big day in Aggieland. Bigger than graduation, bigger than the end of finals... all that. I'd waited to have my aggie ring since I was a little kid, after seeing my uncle's ring.

At five AM, the day of ring delivery, my friend Ariel and I went to wait. (she wasn't getting her ring, but she's always awake, y'know). Doors were supposed to open at 7. There were so many people, they opened early. I got, out of 1500 tickets, number 0017. RULE.

So I'm wearing my ring, and so excited I can hardly see straight, right.

That night, we went drinking, I think, and everyone stayed up late. I didn't sleep that night.

Or the next. And so, as you can figure, I was starting to get a little loopy. the next afternoon, after three-and-a-half days without sleep...

We were standing in the dorm room next door. Me, my roommate, and the two guys that lived there. In these dorm rooms, there is (this connects, I promise) a big fluorescent light fixture.

and we're standing there, and all of a sudden, I see the fixture come off the ceiling, drop three feet, and fly, magic-carpet-style ( </steppenwolf> ), at my head.

Only this was ENTIRELY a hallucination. Fixture DIDN'T MOVE. not an inch.

I ducked. In the middle of an empty room. I think I may have gone "WHOAAA" at the same time.

Even in that state of "you're not liable for your actions since it's been 90 hours since you slept", I knew (after three other people asked me what THE FUCK I was doing...

that it was time to go to bed.

And I conceded defeat and went to bed. for like six hours. I'm not sure how I overcame a twenty-hour sleep deficit in six... but i pulled it off.
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The tale of The Chinchilla and the razor [Aug. 11th, 2006|01:24 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

[mood |ditzyditzy]

Not so much "I should have died" as "I was convinced I would die."

I was scared of a LOT of really stupid crap as a kid. Table pepper, for one. Electric razors, for another. I was scared of those up until... well, when I got my hair chopped off my freshman year of college, I was still really, really unnerved by that damn thing. I used to be convinced that one was going to shred the skin on my neck, or cut my throat, or sever my head. Yes, I was a really morbid kid, and not much has changed now that I think about it. Anyway, I remember coming home from school one day when I was about eight and my parents had the TV on "A Current Affair," which I think was some sort of news show or something. I can't remember too much about the show other than the "WOMMMM" noise that went along with their logo and one video that was shown. In this video, people were talking about The Chinchilla. It was a little chinchilla that went around while people were asleep or their power was out and he would shave their heads with an electric razor. It scared me so very, very badly.

Let me say that again. For years, I was terrified that a chinchilla with an electric razor was going to show up in my house and cut my throat while I slept.

Yep, I was special as a kid.

(crossposted to my personal LJ)
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T-E- A.... shit [Jul. 12th, 2006|12:10 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

So, in the same vein as most of these posts, I give you permanent proof of... an acute case of the dumbass"

So baldeagle has this roommate, right. And in reality, for all that I have...'redneck tendencies', his roommates had the redneck thing NAILED UP TIGHT. So I come in one day, and one of them, Justin, is wearing denim shorts, right. And he has this... scribble on his leg.

*point at it* "hey Justin, what's that shit on your leg?"

and received --in some cross between the "OH YOU ASSHOLE" voice and the "damn, I wish you hadn't noticed" voice--

"oh, FUCK YOU, man". And he walked off.

So I ask baldeagle what happened, right.

Apparently... Justin was drinking. A lot.

[insert 'I am Jack's unbelievable sense of shock' comment here]

And Justin owns a tattoo needle, right.

So he decides (BRILLIANT MOVE) that he wants a tattoo. About Texas.

He's, at this point, sitting down. And the most convenient piece of skin he can see is... the top of his right knee.

So he gets out the tattoo needle, rigs it up, and begins.







*crosses it out*

*starts again*

And apparently it was set waaaaay too deep. there was, how you say, a bunch of blood on his leg, too.

But having some iteration of TEAXAS drawn into your leg isn't totally the big kicker.

He was sitting down. So when he stands up, right...

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This is a chemical burn. It will hurt, and you will have a scar. [Jul. 6th, 2006|03:01 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

[mood |goodgood]

everyone remembers high school chemistry labs, right? They warn you about the chemicals, y'know. this will itch if you get it on you, this will turn your skin yellow, if you mix these two it'll turn into a cyanide gas... blah blah blah. And that was the, say, 6-molar stuff. There was, in small, glass bottles with CHEWED-UP-FROM-THE-ACID stoppers, 18-molar Nitric acid, right.

IT EMITS VISIBLE VAPORS when the shit hits the air. Always a good "oh of course this is safe" signal.

And there was this intelligent-but-kinda-street-stupid girl in our class. who apparently decided that...a yellow smiley face would be neat to have. On the back of her hand.

with 18-molar HNO3. I found this out sort of third-hand, right, since she came back to class with a bandage on the back of her hand. And a pretty severe chemical burn. Ouch, eh?

The kicker is this. Look at the back of your hand. See all that texture, the tiny little wrinkles that make your hand look not-like-a-piece-of-scar-tissue? She has a SMILEY FACE SCARRED INTO THE TOP OF HER RIGHT HAND. And the skin of it is smooth. no fine wrinkles or texture at all.

*creeped out*
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why I don't like hairspray [Jun. 13th, 2006|08:39 am]
I should have died, and this is why...

[music |Blue October - 3 weeks, She Sleeps]

"stupid shit that happened to John when he was younger, part the fourth"

So. You've all seen industrial velcro, right? The just-like-normal-velcro- but-heavier-duty stuff, right? And it's a bunch of little plastic rods, with little balls melted on the ends, k? (trust me, here.)

SO. At the same house of the guy from The Trap-Shooter Story, right, and there are three of us there. The guy who lives there--James (who's also lucky he didn't die, many times) and me and this kid Wes who lived in one of the other houses nearby. And James has the window open, and I think he might have been throwing firecrackers out the window. I'm not sure. I'm distinctly lucky, with all the experiments we did with shit that will burn or explode, that I have all my fingers. That, though, is neither here nor there.

So. There's a lighter, right, and this can of hairspray, right. And I'm sitting on the side of the bed, I think, and James and Wes are standing on the bed throwing shit out the window.

Or so I thought.

I hear, at some point:

chk *psshh*. and think nothing of it.

I then hear:

chk *psshh*
chk *psshh*
chk *psshh* FWOOOOSH.

And my head gets all warm, right.

Wes, that motherfucker, burned like an 1/8th of an inch off EVERY HAIR ON MY HEAD, with a lighter and hairspray.

Stunk like hell. (I'd say "like you can't imagine", but... I know you people. you can imagine what that smells like. 'Cause some of you've done it.)

See, hair, when it burns (for all you people who've never done this,) MELTS, down the hair, toward your scalp, when it burns.

Fast forward to me riding home, quickly, and trying to scrub my hair in the sink to keep from looking too much like I just GOT THE SHIT BURNT OUT OF MY HAIR.

And apparently it worked. Until I went to get a haircut the next time. Gene(rest in peace; he's deceased now), the barber I'd gone to for a long time, looked at me and said some iteration of "Son, what the hell'd you DO to your hair?"

Close-up, i apparently still looked like Velcro-headed Boytm....

crossposted to ishouldhavedied
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Physics in different environments [Jun. 6th, 2006|04:37 pm]
I should have died, and this is why...

[mood |amusedamused]

When I was a kid, I grew up in the flatlands of northwest Ohio. Seriously, think PRAIRIE.

There's one hill in my hometown, created when they dug out a bunch of dirt to created the raised train tracks through the heart of down. That hill just happens to be straddled by the local bank; so its parking lot was where lots of us played on our bikes.

At the foot of the hill is a grocery store. The two lots connect. In the summer, lots of us would get in the third drive through lane of the bank after it closed and coast down the hill to see who could go farthest.

Did I mention I grew up in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? This was fun for us.

Anyway, after the blizzard of 1978, the town was for all intents and purposes, shut down for a few days while roadways were being excavated. The bank lot hadn't been cleared, but it had sure as snot been packed down.

Some time after the snows finally stopped, there was a wicked freezing rain. You know, the kind that leaves a super-dense crust on top of packed down snow?

I had one of those cheap-assed sheets of thick, semi-hard plastic some brilliant toy maker had punched two holes in and decided to call a roll-up sled.

I had a brilliant idea.

I had one of my first damn near died experiences.

I trudged my way up the main drag sidewalk, which had been shoveled and salted and gamely made my way to the bank.

I lay down on my rollup sled and pushed myself forward.

I took off down that hill like a SHOT.

It was great for a second or two, until I reached the edge of the grocery store parking lot where the hill flattened back out and didn't even start to slow down. Apparently, tires on hot pavement yielded a bit more friction to slow you down than sheet ice against smooth plastic.

I kept sliding. FAST. At the end of the grocery store parking lot was Edgerton Street, which went on for another block before it dead-ended at the fairgrounds. By the time I hit the end of the grocery store lot, I could tell I was slowing down, but I wasn't slowing down much.

I went straight out into the street, hoping for all the world there weren't any cars coming. There was one, but it was doing all of 5 and didn't come anywhere close. I still saw it as I bulleted by, though.

Did I mention those two holes in the plastic? Yeah. Those are "handles". Apparently, I spooked myself and was trying to pull back on those handles like they were reins in order to whoa that bitch down.

What I ended up doing was a thoroughly fucked up impression of the pull the tablecloth out from under the place settings trick because as soon as I cleared the intersection, I suddenly felt my arms flying backwards as the plastic got air ABOVE me. Given the fact that I started rolling to my left, I figure it didn't come out exactly evenly.

I ended up going ass over teakettle into the side of the bins next to the laundromat.

My arms hurt. I was dinged up. The bottom of my ghetto assed "sled" was all scratched up. I lost a glove and I had icicles hanging off my lashes. That's okay, though. Ishouldhavedied.
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