Here’s the story of accidents, pain, and a lot of blood.
It may be an understatement to say that stabbing oneself with a screwdriver hurts like hell, but stabbing oneself with a screwdriver really does hurt like hell. You might be wondering what kind of muppet would stab himself with a screwdriver, but there are two points I’d like to make. Point one: I was assembling a flat pack piece of furniture. Point two: I’m a man. These two things ensured that the probability of me hurting myself was considerably high. Well, I say ‘stab’, but actually, the screwdriver entered my thumb sideways, burrowing its way under my skin until about an inch of it was lodged in my thumb. If that makes you wince, JUST IMAGINE HOW I FELT! I ripped the screwdriver out of my thumb and blood started gushing everywhere. I ran to tell mother. She said, “Oh, no! You didn’t get any blood on our new coffee table, did you?” Oh gee, THANKS MUM! Real considerate…
I was assembling the coffee table for mother and father because they both have arthritis, so assembling stuff isn’t that easy for them these days. I also mow the lawn for them. And clean the windows. In fact, now I think about it, I wonder if they have arthritis at all or are just using it as an excuse not to pay me for chores. No, I kid, I love assembling flat pack furniture. The excited ripping off the packaging, laying out all the pieces, checking you have all the tools, prepping, reading through the instructions. I know it’s a pain in the arse and most guys would rather just get stuck in, but trust me fellas, the ladies love it when you do things properly…
“Honey, the table collapsed when I put my coffee cup on it.”
“Look, you said assemble it, I assembled it. Stop complaining…”
To be honest, I haven’t had the best of weeks in regards to injury. I stood on a mirror, and no, it was facing down. Mother said to me, “If it was on the floor, what were you looking at?” IT WAS FACE DOWN! It shattered into a million pieces, many of which lodged themselves in my foot. My initial concern was, ‘Does this count as seven years bad luck?’ Because I didn’t break it deliberately. It was an accident, luck gods! Please, don’t punish my clumsiness!
I just had to Google it.
Ah, here we go:
‘If one accidentally breaks a mirror, one must take all the pieces of the mirror and bury them in moonlight, or take all the pieces and throw them into running water, or pound the broken mirror into tiny pieces so that none of them can reflect anything ever again.’
What the hell? I put it in the bin! Oh, no, I don’t want seven years bad luck! I’ve already had 25 years of bad luck. I was hoping it would end soon, but now it could perpetuate for another seven years! Well, I suppose it can’t reflect in the bin and it will be crushed in the bin lorry. But what’s the timescale? I had it on the dining room table until mother and father got home, so I could ask them what to do with it. It was reflecting plenty, then. Do you have an hour? Is it straight away? It is like a game show?
“I only have one hour? Oh, damn, I need a hammer! WHERE THE HELL ARE THE SHED KEYS, MARTHA!”
Also, how can you bury something in moonlight? Is it under moonlight?
“Yeah, sorry darling, but we’re gonna have seven years bad luck. I could’ve buried the pieces under moonlight, but it’s overcast tonight. The weather has been awful.”
“Ah, no, honey. Actually, the timescale is a week.”
“Well, I must say, that is some terrific news. I’ll bury it tomorrow and we won’t have any bad luck.”
“Well, I won’t, but you broke the mirror.”
“I guess that’s true. It’s just a silly superstition, anyway.”
“Perhaps, dear. But I have good news. I’m pregnant!”
“Oh, wow – it IS just a silly superstition!”
“Well, not really. It’s not yours – I’ve been having an affair with the milkman…”
You see, readers! This is what happens when one breaks a mirror!
The Romans were the ones who came up with the seven years bad luck malarkey. They said that a mirror only breaks if the person looking at it is of bad health, so that person needed seven years of bad luck to enable their life to renew itself. This superstition was quickly forgotten but re-emerged in the olden days when mirrors were expensive to make. It was a scare tactic. ‘Don’t break that, bad luck will follow.’
I tell you this much: the Romans said nothing about dishwasher tablets. Then again, their dishwashers had a name. And a face. And a paycheque. And were probably in shackles, but that’s not the point. Here’s how fragile I am: I cut myself on a dishwasher tablet. Honestly, I’ve bled more this week than in my entire life. Jesus wept, I’m falling apart.
“Ally, can you put the dishwasher tablets in the container, please?”
Two minutes later.
“ARRRRGH! HOLY SHIT, THAT’S SHARP!”
I’m calling for a boycott of all Finish dishwasher tablets. The… the brand. Not… not dishwasher tablets from Finland. That would be a very strange boycott indeed.
Do you know what the worst part is? They smell like candy. I can’t quite put my finger on what type, but the smell of Finish dishwasher tablets definitely reminded me of some candy I used to eat as a child. Keep them out the reach of children, is my advice. And adults, too, because I have a huge flap of finger skin hanging off…
It’s amazing when one hurts oneself, isn’t it? Women grab the affected area and clutch it tightly, attempting to stem the blood flow. Men shout and frantically wave about their affected area, which is what I did. Bad idea, readers. Really bad. The blood went everywhere. As did the contents of the vacuum cleaner later on as I tried to empty it one handed into the bin.
Even my eyelashes turned on me, this week. One started pointing down and it was scratching at my eyeball. I had to pluck it out. Fellas, I don’t know if you’ve ever plucked out an eyelash, but if you haven’t, I can assure you, getting kicked in the nuts hurts less…
Honestly, I’m constantly shaking and terrified what’s gonna hurt me, next. Oh, yes. All my ailments are the world’s fault. As my hero Homer Simpson once said, “It’s everyone’s fault but mine.”
Do you know what I thought I’d do after all this? Have a nice cuppa Yorkshire tea and a big thick juicy steak. Everyone loves that. Well, maybe not vegetarians, but that’s ‘cause they’re weird. Hey, I have no problem with folk who want to munch on leaves, it’s just not very filling. Plus, and this is an actual scientific fact, pigs like being eaten. That’s a true fact, ladies and gentlemen.
You know what happened? The grill broke! I couldn’t open it after the latch got stuck. My food was burnt and ruined. Tears started flowing down my face.
“NO! NO, NO, NO! THESE PIGS DIDN’T DIE FOR NOTHING! OH, GEORGE FOREMAN, YOU PRICK, DAMN YOU TO HELL!”
There was also quite a bit of fist shaking at the sky.
They were the last pork chops, too. So I had to eat the charcoaled mess. Oh, gee, that was rather… unpleasant. Sigh. It broke the bloody steak knife, too. The metal bit with the teeth broke away from the handle. I pushed so hard trying to cut into what was, effectively, a lump as hard as concrete, that both the steak and the end of the steak knife, came flying off. Both landed on the carpet and rolled around for a bit.
Turns out, our steak knives have been falling apart for a while. Dad knew about it and tried to fix it. With what can best be described as substandard glue…
You know, I don’t think a grown man crying into his dinner is a common occurrence.
It was also a bad idea because I ended up with gravy all over my face…
Hmm, no steak. No steak knife. Aint that dandy?
Ice cream. That’s what I needed to cheer myself up. Oh, crumbs. We only had chocolate. Who the hell likes chocolate ice cream? I’m Italian. Ice cream is what we do best. It’s out forté. Our calling in life. Well, amongst other things. Making gorgeous cars. Superb lovemaking. Things like that. I can assure you, whatever monster invented chocolate ice cream is not human. Because no human would do something that awful to something so beautiful.
It didn’t taste so good, but at least I now have a new mirror. So that’s… swell. And I have a new comb. My old one broke this week. Mind you, I did win it in a Christmas cracker. I’m still picking the comb teeth out of my hair. And I haven’t even mentioned the immense pain in my mouth, caused by a new tooth breaking through. But I guess I can’t complain too much. There are people much worse off in this world. At least I’m alive. Which, based on my track record, is nothing short of an absolute miracle.
I guess it’s a good job I’ve never had a girlfriend.
I probably would’ve ended up accidentally killing most of them…
English poet, playwright and actor, William Shakespeare (1564-1616), once wrote: ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’
Peace Out :|:
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