I’m sure you’ve been there. It’s that point when you realize that what you are about to do is going to rank in your very own “Top 10 Dumbest” list. Maybe it’s having just one more shot at the bar. Maybe it’s trying to cross the street while the cars are zooming past, because you saw a hot girl on the other side on the road and want to get a closer look. Here is a couple things I’ve done that are definitely in my “Top 10″ list of dumb things that hurt.
She won't date green belts, I already asked.
1) N.I.T. (ninja in training) – One day during school in the 8th grade, my classmates and I were working on a project that involved us being outside. The school had a small gazebo, which is where we had congregated. I wasn’t interested in the subject at hand, and neither were my friends. So naturally, we start play fighting. (That’s normal right?) The play fighting, as always, turned into a pretty heated battle. It was nothing too serious, but enough that I felt the need to karate kick my adversary. His quick, cat-like reflexes (or my sloth-like footwork) enabled him to grab my foot before I connected. I remember watching kung-fu movies, and saw my opportunity to showcase my skills and use my other foot to kick his face, thus forcing him to relinquish his grasp on the foot he already had, and land on both feet and bask in the glory of being the ultimate bad-ass. So, I go for it. I jumped…FREEZE…this was that point. You know, the one where I realized this was a bad idea. So I make contact with my kung-fu trickery, however, forgot the laws of basic physics and realized the top half of my body wasn’t going to wait for my feet to hit the ground. I was going down, hard. In an effort to avoid a thunderous blow to my head, I twist and try to soften my blow with my hands. I saved myself a possible concussion, but instead received a fractured wrist… Dumb-ass.
At least MY couch incident wasn't televised.
2) White men really can’t jump – This happened in high school, and during the heaviest of my days. I was nearly six feet tall, and a mean 240 lbs (by “mean” I mean a “flabby beached whale mean”). Anyways, I was a free soul. So when it came time for me to leave the living room, (most likely to get to the fridge) instead of walking around the couch I chose to jump over it. Now I had limited brain power at this time (most of it was on bacon bits) but I was smart enough to use the cushions as a trampoline to clear the back of the couch. However, I ignored those small physics lessons, again, and didn’t completely clear the back of the couch. It did ok, by proportionate standards. See, the only thing that hit the couch was my pinky toe. But I promise, I would have rather broken my leg. The small mistake left me on the floor screaming and cursing like a child with turrets. I babied it for the rest of the day and took it easy for the next few days. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss the moment. It was only a week later when the pain had completely subsided and I made another mad dash out of the living room. Without even thinking, I jump up on the cushions…FREEZE…here it is. I did not lose any weight from the last time I tried this, and as you can imagine, the results were the same. I caught the same pinky toe on the same couch back. Once again, screaming and cursing, but this time I was actually in so much pain that I created a new curse word. “FU-LA-GITCH!” … Dumb-ass.
This is probably safer than what we did.
3) My competitive nature – I am a very competitive person. I can’t stand losing. I once threw a deck of cards at my grandmother when she beat me in rummy. So naturally when fellow ManWholer Nick Krueger, who is just as competitive as I am, and I decided to undergo a boxing match in high school, it wasn’t going to end pretty. We didn’t have enough money to purchase real boxing gear, first mistake. Instead of the proper gear, we assumed we could protect ourselves by wrapping dish towels around our fists. I don’t recommend this to anyone. I didn’t figure too much harm could be done, until Nick caught me with a stiff cross to the jaw…FREEZE…you know. I had two choices at this point. I could admit that boxing with dish towels wasn’t the greatest idea and call the match. Or I could shake it off, use the anger to my advantage, and deliver a beat-down. You already know what I picked. We dance around for a few seconds and I deliver a nice jab just above his upper lip. This wasn’t a big enough blow to end the match, however, the blood oosing out of Nick’s mouth informed me that I had cut the inside of his lip on his braces. Did I mention we didn’t have mouth guards? In an effort to save the integrity of the dish towels, and more importantly not leave any evidence for his parents, we called the match. At least I had a partner in this one… Dumb-asses.
