The Stupidest Thing I ever Did

If you ask a lot of people what the stupidest thing they ever did in their life was, most people are going to have to stop and think about it. Some people won’t know.

For me, it’s easy. As a matter of fact I could probably list one through ten without much thought. Let me tell about number one.

I live on a farm 20 minutes north of town. It was a weekday night in February 1998. It had begun to snow in that sad sickly way that starts with freezing rain. There were important things going on at the office the next day and more snow forecast, so I planned on driving my 1979 Chevy 4WD.

This truck is equipped with a plow.

The hydraulic lift on the plow has a leak.

Driving this truck in the best of conditions ain’t exactly easy. It used to be an automatic, now it has a Ford 3 speed manual jury-rigged into it. The clutch mostly works, and it sways like a drunk over the slightest bump. With a plow on the front, it’s as scary as hell. Not only does it catch all the wind, and push you around, but the leaky hydraulics mean that at any moment the plow could fall down and catch pavement at 60 mph. I call this effect “unintentional braking.”

To avoid this, I decided to load the plow (all 300 pounds of it) into the back of the truck. No weird aerodynamics and the added weight would give me stability.

In the driveway I unhooked the plow, turned the truck around and backed it up for easy loading. I tilted the plow face down so the open end was on the ground and started to lift one side. In spite of the slippery conditions I got one end into the bed of the truck.

At this point in time I went around to the other side of the plow and performed the single stupidest act of my entire life.

Anybody who knows how to walk will understand that the only thing that kept the plow from sliding off the truck was the friction of it’s edge against the blacktop. As soon as I lifted there was no more friction.

With almost casual disdain the plow slid off the truck, pushed me over backwards and pinned me against the driveway, covering my entire body neatly in the concave space between plow and blacktop. From tips of toes to shoulders I was pinned. Though unhurt I coldn’t move.

I laid there face up to the freezing rain which produced a maddening itch on my nose. For 20 minutes or so I was able to reflect on my stupidity, and idly wonder if it was going to finally kill me. The pressure was such that I couldn’t even wriggle. All I could do was murmmer “…help,” while the dogs watched me disinterestedly.

Finally my wife came out to see what I was doing. After 3 years of trying we had just learned she was pregnant.

“Are you ok?” she asked.

“…help,” I said.

“What are you doing?”

“Are you stuck?”

“How did you do that?”

“I can’t move that. How’d you get under there?”

“I’ll go see if Woody’s home.”


Walking carefully across the ice she goes up to the house and futzes around for a few minutes, before getting in her car to get the neighbor.

I stare at the rain.

Five mintues later she comes back.

“There’s nobody home, but I called 911. Somebody’s coming.”

“…please,…help,” It’s hard to breathe now. My legs and arms have pins and needles in them, I feel sleepy.

“This is your own fault. How did you get under there?” She studies me for a moment, and for the first time looks concerned. “I’ll be right back.”

She goes into the garage and returns with a tow chain. She hooks one end to the plow hookup and the other to the truck hitch.

“I’m gonna pull it off you.”


She gets in the truck, puts it in gear, and drags the plow ten feet down the driveway.

The problem is I’m still under it, just worse for wear for having been dragged 10 feet under a 300 pound plow.

“Are you okay?”


“You’re really stuck. I don’t know what to do.”


At this point, and I swear this is true, my wife comes up with an idea.

“Your heads still sticking out. I could tie your head to a tree or something with a rope so you won’t get dragged, and pull the plow off.”

My teeth are tingling now, and the whole thing seems kind of silly. It’s hard to breathe, and even the rain doesn’t bother me.

A short time later, probably no more than a few minutes, suddenly I can breathe. Then there’s pain as the full weight of the plow settles back on me. It wakes me up to full alertness. I realize that there’s an excellent chance I’m about to die.

“I can’t go any higher. It slides.”

My wife has placed the truck jack by my shoulder and lifted the plow a few inches before it slid again.

“Don’t do that.” I say. “It hurts.”

“Shut up.”

She leaves, and comes right back. She starts with the jack again.


“Shut the fuck up!” she says. She never curses.

She jacks the plow up a little, and props scrap wood she got from the garage on the edges. She goes to the other end of the plow and jacks it up.

“Get out.”

I try to wriggle and push but I can’t get any purchase.


“I can’t”

She comes over, sits behind me, puts her feet on the plow and grabs my head. She pulls, I wriggle, and little by little I come free. It took the Fire Department another 10 minutes to get there.

I wanted this to be funny, but I guess it’s not. Anyway, that’s the stupidest thing I ever did. Feel free to share your stupidity as well.

I dont know about the stupidest thing, but the hardest thing I ever tried to do was read that whole thread without laughing. But I feel your pain, I sometimes get weighed down by my own stupidity.


The stupidest thing I did lately happened on Monday night. I was making a caramel apple cobbler and had been melting down butter and sugar to make the caramel myself.

I love caramel! So naturally, I wanted to taste it and see how it was coming along. I took the wooden spoon, stirring, stirring, and pulled it out of the extremely hot molten caramel and put a big dollop of it onto my left middle finger. I’d overcooked it too, it was at hardball stage.

Jebus! Commander no brain big pain. I’m not sure I’ll still have a fingerprint on my left middle finger when it’s finished healing up. Shit.

I’ll have to think on the stupidest thing in your life one, I’m sure I’ve done worse to myself than worse than caramel coat a digit.

The stupidest thing I ever did? Other than saying “I do” on a certain occasion…

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college I took a job in a furniture factory. One day I was working one of the machines that puts together office partitions, and the damn thing jammed somehow. The only way to un-jam this huge mechanism was to actually get inside it and break up the wooden pieces that made up the partition that was being made when the machine jammed and remove them.

The wooden pieces are connected with small nails and hot glue. When I broke one of the wooden pieces off, it flew up in the air and I reflexively caught it, at which time I covered most of one finger with the hot glue.

That was truly interesting. At first I didn’t feel anything, but my co-workers told me to go see the nurse, and while I was walking across the factory it started to hurt. That was the first time I ever experienced waves of pain. Third degree burns over most of one finger. Still have a scar from it, over 20 years later.
Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch…

Scylla, I tried to read your post as funny and failed. Thank God you’re okay. It’s amazing how quickly an everyday kind of action can turn into a life-threatening situation, isn’t it? I’m glad your wife is quick-thinking (despite some of her earlier, less than effective ideas - tie your HEAD to a tree??).

Probably the most stupid thing I ever did was swerve to avoid a hubcap that had just come off a car in front of me. On a rain-slick highway. In a fairly new (top-heavy, rear-wheel-drive) Jeep Cherokee, which had replaced my (low-to-the-ground, front-wheel-drive) Colt. As I skidded into the guard rail and then bounced off into a passing pickup truck, I recalled that I was waiting till payday to send in the insurance premium and the grace period had expired the day before. Luckily, we were both wearing our seat belts, so no one was hurt. The Jeep, surprisingly, didn’t roll.

Come to think of it, that was more than one stupid thing.

I got one.

Years ago, well, it happened a couple years after graduating high school, a large group of friends got together at a bar over Thanksgiving break.

It was a pretty big deal because most were coming back from far away schools and universities to be with family and friends for the festivities. Somehow, I don’t quite remember the details, it was agreed upon that all of us would gather at one specific bar. It was a large group- maybe a hundred to hundred and fifty people from our class that ended up showing. It was destined to be the event of the winter.

The bar itself was a local dance/college bar. It also was very popular. There would usually be a line to get in around 9:00 P.M… So far? Perfect.

I show up with a few close friends and begin to mingle. I hadn’t seen these people in quite some time. The cocktails and shots were flowing fast and furious.

Needless to say, at this point, I was having a grand 'ol time. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t remember having that much fun in a long time.

Somewhat dating myself here, in that day and age, the big thing to wear were heavily bleached jeans with the cuffs rolled up at the bottom. Pretty stupid looking now, but hey, it was the thing back then.

Anyhoo, the call of nature came and I begin my trek to the biffy. All the while people are saying “Hey Chris!! How the Hell are you!?! C’Mere!!”. “Great!! Yeah, I be right over. Hold on”.

I finally get to the bathroom and begin my wait. I do the obligatory glance in the mirror and think to myself, ‘Looking pretty good’.

Finally, my turn comes up.

I’m now standing at the urinal. I unzip my fly and rummage around for the proper tool for the job. As I begin to whiz, I get a sudden urge to… well… ‘free-form’ it, as it were. I was feeling so good and happy that I decided hands were optional. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever tried this stunt. Now, I’d seen this done by others on different occasions, but I’d never been quite brave enough to try it myself. But not tonight. I’m feeling gooood.

I’m standing there with my hands on my hips, staring at the wall in front of me, feeling grand, free-form and no hands.

I’m thinking about my good friends, the good times we’ve all had together, and the fact that… I’m getting pretty waisted here.

To begin with, I’m peeing pretty damn hard. Secondly, my bodies heating up in different areas in differing degrees. I’m a bit flushed and sweaty, but feel kinda cool over the rest of my body- with the exception of my legs.

My legs are actually becoming quite hot. Time to take a look and see what’s up. I look down and notice that the fly and jeans have buckled out at one point and has now interrupted the free flow of pee. Result- Ricocheting pee. Oh shit.

The act of peeing had stopped at this point- fear of what just happened had kicked in. But I can’t see what’s happened because it’s too damn dark in the bathroom- this bull-shit assed mood lighting.

But, lucky for me, I’m wearing nearly white jeans that react with the lighting in the bathroom. As soon as I turn towards the mirror, it’s clear what I had done.

I have a nearly perfect ‘V’ of pee from my crotch downward. Completely soaked. I turn away and aim my crotch towards the wall so no-one can see what I’d done.

My mind begins to race. What the Hell am I going to do now!?!

I need to find a way to dry this up- but how!?! I’m trapped.

I look around, trying not to attract too much attention to myself, still trying to aim my crotch towards the nearest wall. Shit! Air dryers. That won’t work. Where the Hell is a napkin dispensor when you need one.

But wait a minute. I’m standing right next to the stalls. The stalls have toilet paper. That’ll work. O.K… Now how to get there without people noticing me.

Maybe if I time this out right and use a good excuse, I can get in there and dry my crotch up.

I casually look down and notice the guy in the stall next to me is finishing up and coming out. I make my strike. I turn around, put on my acting hat, and say rather loudly, “Ohh. Ughh. Uh Oh. I think I’m gonna be sick!! Outta my way!!”.

Perfecto!! The guys clear a path to the sap exiting the stall. I’m safe now.

Problem number, ahh, I don’t know at this point. The problem at that moment is the damn jeans. They’ve soaked up so much pee, and their stupid color highlights every drop of anything wet, that the one roll of T.P. just aint gonna cut it.

Now what do I do? The table where we’re at is clear accross the bar. People will notice my ‘V’ walking over there.

Maybe I could leave? Nope. That won’t work, they’ll think I might be in trouble. Besides, I didn’t drive. Shit SHIT SHIT.

I’ve got to get back to my friends and have one of them get me out of here. But how am I going to get back to the table without everyone noticing my major fau paux?

It occurs to me that the bar is so busy that maybe I can walk close enough behind someone that I might not attract too much attention to myself.

Well, Hell, that’s the only thing I can do at this point. I take a couple deep breaths and make my move.

I get out to the main bathroom area and wait for someone to leave. Sure enough, a guy is leaving. Actually, this is great- the guys pretty damn big. I get as close to him as I can possibly muster without him getting pissed.

I think to myself, ‘It’s working!! This is too easy Chris. He’s heading in the direction you need to go, too!!! You might just pull this off!! Hey. Wait a minute. Where are you… DAMMIT.’. He turns to the left to hit the dance floor.

There I am. Alone. In the middle of the packed bar. Someone else notices me and not my prominent ‘V’. “Hey Chris! Over here! Let’s do a shot!”

Think Chris. THINK!! “Yeah. In a minute.”

Over there. A group of people standing in a circle. Go thata way!! Fast Chris!!

I round the group of women, smiling, keeping exact and distinct eye contact with each and every one of them the whole time, making sure they never look down.

I’m almost there… I’m walking fast now. My eyes are like radars looking for someone looking at my crotch region. I round the bar and sight the table… Out of knowwhere- “Chreestopher!! Howya been? I’m glad you’re here”. It’s Jen. I’ve always liked Jen. “Hiya Jen. I’ll be back. Now excuse me. EXCUSE ME PLEASE!”

Ahh, who cares. Her and I would never have worked.

There it is- The table. My oasis. Just two more steps…

I shoot myself into my seat. SUCCESS!! I drink my drink like I’ve never drank one before. My best friend, sitting next to me, says “Hey. What’s up? Where’d you go?”. “Dave, we’ve got to get outta here… and… well… I need to walk right behind you when we leave. I’ll explain it to you outside.” “Ahhh… Yeah Chris… Sure thing.”

We leave as planned, make it to the car and I explain my case and show him my… accident. Hilarity ensued. “I can’t wait to tell people this! Chris… Ahhha HHAAAA!!”. “Dave, you’re not saying anything. We’re leaving. I’m going home and changing clothes. We’re going to come back and you’re going to be quiet. GOT IT.” “Yeah. I guees. Well, let’s hurry up.”

We left and I changed at home and came back. I proceeded to get so drunk that about an hour after re-appearing at the bar, I was hanging on people blabbering away at what had happened. I still don’t know if those people even knew me.
One of my funnest pre-Thanksgiving days ever.


That’s pretty good. I’ve done that myself, there’s something about buttonfly jeans that leaves a lot of mass around the crotch area while you’re trying to pee. The cotton’s so thick, that if it catches the edge of the stream you don’t notice it until you’re soaked.

As you can guess, I’ve done that too. My solution was to go over to the sink, and basically spash water all over myself; shirt, pants, everywhere. That way the crotch wetness seems incidental. You can just walk back to the table and mutter darkly about the sink exploding, or being attacked by a guy with a super soaker. If you act really angry, people won’t question you too much, and you can get away with it.
Of course you’re all wet and covered with pee though, but hey, no solution is perfect.

When I was in high school I did a lot of tech theater work, mostly lighting, sometimes sound, and occasionally, when the opportunity arose, pyrotechnics. One year the community theater put on an elaborate production of The Wizard of Oz, and there was a lot of pyrotechnics work to be done. It was the first time I had done pyrotechnics with another person.

Anyway, there were several flashpots mounted beneath the set that poked up through the floor, the top of the flashpots being flush with the surface so that the actors wouldn’t trip over them. Well, during a dress rehearsal one of these sets of flashpots was found to be sticking up a little through the floor, so before the next rehearsal we needed to fix them.

There was a lot of pre-show preparation to be done, and it was my job to load up all these flashpots on stage. So the next day I confer with the guy I’m working with and we agree that the easiest way to fix the flashpots that are poking up through the floor would be to leave them mounted as they are and just grind them down with a metal grinder.

The other pyro guy has quite a bit of his own repair work to do before the show, and in fact he has been at the theater working all afternoon. So I set about fixing the flashpots before I do my normal preparations (which includes loading everything).

I grab an electric drill and one of those stone grinding bits and kneel down on the platform and start grinding away. After a couple seconds, I notice a peculiar visual sensation. It seems that all of a sudden I can’t see anything out of my right eye. I find this particularly annoying because the work I’m doing falls mostly within my right eye’s field of vision, and I’m having trouble seeing what I’m doing.

It occurs to me that suddenly losing one’s vision in one eye does not normally happen, so I stop what I’m doing and look up to see if this is really what’s happening (it was pretty dark where I was working, and I thought maybe some lights were turned off or something). Looking up, I find that I really can’t see out of my right eye. This is most puzzling.

I also notice that everyone on stage is staring at me, and some of them are running towards me. I hear people saying things like “Oh shit! Call an ambulance!”, and it finally dawns on me that the fucking flashpot had been loaded and the sparks from the grinder had set it off right in my face.

Fortunately I sustained no permanent injuries (I had to wear an eyepatch for a week or so, and my eyelashes and eyebrows were completely singed off) because the flashpot just contained regular flash powder. The flashpot next to it (which I almost started working on) contained “sparkle powder” which shoots out lots of white-hot flakes of burning aluminum that would almost certainly have burned holes through my cornea.

Jesus, that was dumb.

Jesus Christ Boy!!!
that was not only stupid, but that would HURT!!!
Flash Burns-ow!

one of my friends grabbed a RED-HOT metal sheet the other day, right after welding it in metalshop, talk about dumb…
couldn’t feel, and not sure if he feels his index finger and thumb yet. He is a dumb guy

When I was in high school, I had a friend named Jason who was kind of the yin to my yang (or yang to my yin, or something). I was the shy, sober, look-both-ways-before-crossing-the-street-type, while he was much more of a free spirit, and willing to try anything once just to see what would happen. He was, in the words of my parents, a Bad Influence.

One Sunday afternoon, I went over to his house and he showed me a large brown paper sack filled with bottle rockets. The whistling kind. Cool. Needless to say, we started sticking them in the ground and firing them at anything and everything: his house, the neighbor’s house, over the house and into the front yard, onto the house, that sort of thing. WHHOOOOSH…WHEEEEEEEE…POWW! Luckily, his parents weren’t home, so we were safe.

At one point, we shot one against a sliding glass door, where it bounced back and nearly took his eye out. At this point, a normal person would have said “Hey, maybe this is dangerous.” So, after pondering this development for a moment, Jason went into the tool shed, rooted around for a couple of minutes, and came back out with a piece of aluminum tubing, about three feet long and three or four inches wide.

Jason put the tube on his shoulder like a bazooka and aimed it at the sliding glass door. I lit a rocket and placed it in the tube. WHHOOOOSH…WHEEEEEEEE…POWW! It hit the door again. We spent a little more time perfecting the system; optimum range, angle of elevation, etc. We even fashioned a crude sighting device out of a piece of wood. By the end of the afternoon we were pretty accurate, considering the unpredictability of the average bottle rocket. We were proud of ourselves.

At this point, a normal person would have decided “Hey, that was fun. I guess I’ll go home now. Maybe we can do this again next weekend.” So, after a few moments of pondering our newfound skill, we decided to chase our friend Ray to school the next day and fire bottle rockets at him.

The next day dawned bright and beautiful, smelling of adventure, the way a springtime day should to the young and stupid. Jason and I had decided that I would be the first to test out our new rocket-launcher, while he would drive my yellow '72 VW Beetle (I was concerned about losing my driver’s license if we got caught by the cops. We reasoned that if he drove my car, there was no problem. I couldn’t lose my license if I wasn’t driving the car, now could I?). After an amusing episode in which Jason convinced his mom that a big paper sack and a three-foot long aluminum tube with a wooden sight on it was going to be used in science class that day, we were off. I drove to Ray’s neighborhood and parked a couple of houses down from his. Then Jason and I switched seats. And waited.

After a minute or two, Ray came out of his house. Walked to his car. Turned and looked directly at us. Gave us the finger. Got in his car. Took off. Shit. The chase was on!

It was difficult getting a good angle on Ray at first. The route to school went through a residential area before coming out onto a four-lane highway. Once we got to the highway, though, he was ours. We were tearing down the road at 7:30 in the morning, doing in excess of seventy miles an hour (as Jason later told me), and I was fumbling for a rocket, trying to hold onto the tube, and screaming at Jason to “Go faster goddammit, faster! We’re not close enough!” Thankfully, the road was blocked up ahead by people going slower than we were, and Ray was forced to slow down. I placed the tube on my shoulder and held the rocket out so Jason could light the fuse.

We were in range. Yes. Jason lit the fuse. Yes! I placed the rocket in the tube. Yesyes! I leaned out of the car window with the tube on my shoulder to deliver our payload to its target…

You know, the slipstream created by a '72 VW Beetle going about fifty miles an hour is really quite vigorous. It blew the rocket back through the tube and into the back of the car. I heard something in the back seat hissing, turned around, saw the rocket on the floor with about a millimeter of fuse left, and responded like any normal person would.

“Ohshitohshit it’s in the back seat goddammit it’s in the BACK SEAT!!!” WHHOOOOSH…WHEEEEEEEE… There was a period there where I believe time actually slowed down. I could hear the ponk! ponk! ponk! as the rocket bounced around in the passenger compartment. I could smell the acrid odor of cordite or black powder or whatever the hell they fill bottle rockets with as the passenger compartment filled with smoke, which then billowed in a greyish-white cloud out of the open windows of my car. I couldn’t actually see anything, as I was curled into a fetal ball with one hand over my eyes and the other hand over my crotch, cupping my balls (Hey, gotta protect the jewels, man. I might want to reproduce someday). Jason, of course, had to concentrate on driving. Perhaps understandably, he was having difficulty, and I felt the car weaving from side to side as he tried to protect himself and keep us from going off of the road. I was dimly aware of his screams as he wrestled with the task. Oh, well. Nothing I could do about it. I waited for the end.

At long last, it came. POWW!! The rocket detonated somewhere in the back. Jason got the car under control. I uncupped my balls and opened my eyes. We looked at each other. And laughed. Big, deep guffaws of laughter, the laughter of idiots who have some how been passed over by the Hand of Darwin.

That pretty much wraps up the story. We made it to school uneventfully. Ray was laughing so hard he was crying. The rest of the day we listened to comments like “Eww! You smell like fireworks!” and “Have you been smoking something!” And Jason and I learned a very valuable lesson that fine spring day: Always put duct-tape over one end of a bottle-rocket bazooka.

When I was about 12 we had a pool and it was my duty at that age to take care of the up keep. At the start of the summer it needed the usual chemicals, chlorine, stabilizer, shock treatment some pH stuff and a few other things. Well, my bright idea was to make only one trip, so I mixed all the stuff together in a big plastic 5 Gal bucket. I set the bucket on the basement floor and put the chemicals away, when I turned around the bucket was bubbling, smoking and melting all over the floor.

Now that I have all the tears wiped out of my eyes from laughing at Scylla’s post…funny it was.

By far, the absolute stupidest thing I ever did was to
start smoking. No question.

The stupiest thing I can remember doing just happened recently:

I was cooking dinner. It was rice, asparagus, and baked chicken. I finished cooking and served myself and my husband. I left the pyrex dish that I cooked the chicken in, on the stove. we sat down to eat. My husband suddenly looks up when he smelled smoke and ran into the kitchen. The pyrex dish was smoking.I had left one of the burners on. He grabs two towels and picks the dish off the stove. He tries to find somewhere to put it. As he is setting it on the counter it explodes in his hands. Pieces if smouldering glass went flying. Several shards landed in this and my feet. Some hit the counter singing it. About 10 large pieces hit the linoleum, burning and melting black holes though it. About 5 large chunks went into the carpet of the dining room. It melted the glass shards on contact into the carpet. 2 pieces went into a lycra dress I had, melting it on contact. We were hoblling around trying to lock the dog in the room. Removing glass fron our feet. I bent down to try removing a piece from the carpet and it sliced open my index finger. we couldn’t stop the bleeding. I am bawling by this time on the bathroom floor, dripping blood everywhere, while my husband is holding gauze to my finger to stop the bleeding. We finally just went to bed and left the mess until the morning.

And that was the stupidest thing I’ve done…

Let’s see, one 14 year old boy and a 6,000 volt neon sign transformer (can you guess yet?).

After making Jacob’s ladders and stuff like that I begin to get bored. So what the heck, let’s see what happens when we set up an arc right through a piece of plywood. Gosh, what fun! You can burn nice little trails of carbon all over it. (Sorta like decorative wood burning on an industrial scale.) Well, even that gets boring after a while. So, grab a tin can full of water and pull one of the probes off of the board to break the circuit. Garsh, let’s pour some of the water on the board to see if it will vaporize when I hook the probe back up.

Think that I even got a chance? Hell no! Start to pour the water onto the board. Water touches the board. Water reaches one of the carbon trails. Current races through conductive carbon trail. Current races up through chemically impure tap water ions. Current races through the metal wall of the tin can. Presto-change-oh:

Current races through me!

Amazing, weird jolting feeling as I reflexively drop the tin can. However, not before I look over and see the current arcing back to the case of the neon sign transformer on the brick patio, over a foot away from me. A return path was created through my hand, arm, back, butt cheek and the bricks in between.

End up with strange feeling in arm, back and butt cheek for the next two weeks as the nerve paths slowly regenerate.

I still have the transformer, I just don’t play with it anymore.

Oh, LOL, Zenster…that explains SO much. :slight_smile:

At least it explains where I got my Don King hair style.

Well, I am well on my way to being a world class freak. Most of my friends think that I should try to get on the new MTV sensation, Jackass…

I’m cheap.

It’s a well known fact that I will do almost anything for money. That, and my odd outlook on things make for a rich opportunity for my friends to bribe me into doing really stupid things…

Well, we work, as I may have mentioned before, in a facility that processes packages to be sent all over the country, so we have packing tape…not the good stuff, with strands of Kevlar (or whatever) in it, but it’s good stuff. We were sitting around, having an incredibly stupid contest in seeing who could get the most body-hair pulled off with one piece of tape. It had started at the arm, and moved on to cheeks, head, calf and in one extremely painful instance, my thigh.

My co-worker, Shane, looked at me, with an evil glint in his eye… I had been complaining about craving Jack in the Box all day, buy alas I was broke. He asked if I wanted to earn 5 bucks. My ears pricked up, and I was hooked.

Five minutes later, I was in the men’s room, my pants around my ankles. Shane was on the other side of the stall partition, giggling with evil glee as I applied a large strip of tape around my scrotum.

He actually laughed out loud when, with a girlish yelp, I ripped the tape from my poor abused genitals. Very little hair was removed, but he was content…

Never has a Sourdough Jack tasted so good.


You really underrate your talents for comedic narrative. I thoroughly enjoyed the way in which you structured your compelling, yet ridiculously absurd, story. I can only praise the masterful form in which you so fluidly mixed suspense and laughter. BTW, your wife is quite a character. Does she have a sister? :smiley:

That was a most amusing dissertation on the devastating consequences inherent to hands-free urination. Which only goes to show that the partnership between a man’s hand and his friend downstairs must be strictly enforced at all times. That being said, I shall take the triumvirate conformed by my hand, my penis and my Playboy to the bathroom…

It’s not so much the stupid things I’ve done (though I got lots of them) as it is my talent for saying the exactly wrong thing at the right time.

Here’s an early example. (I’m still too embarrassed about my later ones.)

It’s 1973 and 'm sharing a house with an older roommate . . . and she is paranoid about every little thing, including the neighbors who came over and told her they didn’t approve of two “wild single gals” living on their block. So she gives me this huge lecture about behaving myself.

Which mostly I do. By today’s standards I’m a veritable pillar of society. But I do have a boyfriend and we spend a lot of time together, though mostly not at my house because of my roommate and the neighbors.

So . . . one night we’ve been out and he takes me home and it’s really really late and he’s really tired and his house is on the other side of town and I’m afraid he’s gonna put the car in a ditch or something. So I say, “spend the night.”

Again, for those of you that came along later, this was a brazen thing for 1973 in Georgia.

He says, “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“No! What if my roommate sees you! Sleep in my room.”

So I’m in my nightgown and arranging the bed . . . and my boyfriend has pulled off his jeans and standing there in his jockeys . . . and all of a sudden there’s my roommate. “What do you think you’re doing?”

And me, ever aware of just the right thing to say, ask “What does it look like?”

I found a nice apartment two days later.

your humble TubaDiva

ROTFL headshok (in a disapproving, that was really illegal kind of way, of course).