You know how, when you drop a knife...

…it falls with the pointy end down, and it goes into your foot, making a pointy-end-of-the-knife hole in it, and you don’t realize it at first, until the pain creeps up, and the blood oozes out, at which point you say to yourself: “Fuck! The knife made a hole in my foot and filled it with meatloaf grease! OW! Shit, I need to clean it and pour peroxide in it and get some neosporin and not get nauseated…OW!”

I hate when that happens.

You know how when you pour a box of thumb tacks all over the floor and then roll around in them naked and then sit in a bathtub full of alcohol?

I hate when that happens.

You know how when you take a cheesegrater and … nope, not gonna do it.

You know how when you’re shredding cabbage for coleslaw in the Cuisinart, and you reach in to…

never mind.

I’m very clumsy, so I did pretty much the same thing twice in two days. On the third day I fell and scraped the heel of my hand almost raw. I was one accident away from having the Klutzy Stigmata.

All I got was reaching into the dish drainer I sliced my finger on a butcher knife… but the knife was clean and razor-sharp, and it doesn’t even hurt that much. So, the OP wins. But yeah, I hate it when that happens.

Yes, I know what that’s like, up until the part with the meatloaf grease.

Not quite that, but I know the fun of sticking my foot to the ground with a lawn Jart. When I removed it, there was a little geyser of blood. I thought it was cool. My mom almost passed out.

I also know the fun of trying to ring up a customer while cupping a handful of my own blood, due to a pair of scissors falling off a peg and into the palm of my hand. I was also bitched at by maintenance for leaving a trail of blood from the store to the restroom.

You know how you tell your spouse over and over again not to put knives in the sink because they tend to roll over onto their backs and present you with a sharp edge hiding among the soapsuds, but she does it anyway, and then you plunge your hand into the soapy water and your thumb slides down the the edge of the chef’s knife that you keep really sharp because you hate dull knives, and then you snatch your hand back and all you see is a long gash with no blood, and then all of a sudden it starts gushing out and won’t stop until you apply pressure to it and elevate your arm for ten minutes, but then it still won’t close properly because it’s such a nice clean cut because the knife was so sharp (haha!)?

Yeah, I really hate that.

the very definition of fun is slicing open your right palm from below the first finger to the lower left quadrant with a razor-sharp knife.

today, many years later, in the right light you can still see the scar - about five inches long. that was the last time i ever tried to cut up anything in my hand. ow ow ow ow ow ow and, ‘oh, mother, the blood, the blood…’ scared the hell out of myself and my mother both.

surprisingly they didn’t stitch it, but completely immobilized the hand. thankfully, i’m a lefty so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been and i didn’t severe anything important.

and then there’s my former excise cop girlfriend’s little mishap. half my size on a good day, she used to bounce drunks off walls and do countless other fun things in bars all over indy. normally, it would take a 10.0 earthquake to even rattle her, but in her kitchen disaster, she managed to outdo me.

one day, for whatever reason, she decided not to use a can opener to open a can of tomato juice (you just know where this is going, don’t you…).

normally she had really great aim – was a consistently-high scorer on weapons marksmanship during her career - but not this particular day.

she managed to not only puncture the can, she also managed to nail her **hand **to the can. :eek: in fact so deeply she couldn’t extricate herself (she lucked out also and managed not to hit anything critical).

smart enough to sit down before she passed out, she was able to dial 911 before she DID pass out. being a police officer, you can imagine the local response when that call came in. another of our girlfriends was a county dispatcher. she sent EVERYTHING, including tracking down the husband and sending him home, too. the neighbors had quite the floor show to watch for a while. :smiley:

Hey, stay away from my wife, lothario.

You know how when you’re putting groceries away, and you’ve opened an upper cupboard and then bend down to fetch dry goods from a bag to put into it, and then you stand up sharply and the bottom corner of the open cupboard door is driven (also sharply) halfway into the occipital region of your cranium, creating a miniature internal light show and provoking an involuntary James Brown impression?

I really hate that.

No, but I kneeled on a tack once and it went fully into my kneecap. It didn’t really hurt much, but it was a weird sensation having something inserted into bone. So much so that I had to have my sister yank it out, because I couldn’t bare to touch it.

And who hasn’t jumped into the waves to splash around a bit, unaware of a board with a rusty nail pointing out of it? Really, the only way to discover boards like these is to step firmly upon the nail unaware.

I read once that pain receptors are a good thing, since without them we might step on rusty nails, think nothing of it, then later die of tetanus. Chances of that happening are low, admittedly, but it’s always a good idea to run periodic checks of the ol’ receptors, make sure they’re working.

Mine were in tiptop shape that day, boy!

You know how when you’re limbing the dead tree you just cut down in your yard and you cut through your boot and halfway through your big toe with a chainsaw?

Yeah, I did that. :eek:
Bone graft. Tendon graft. Skin Graft. Crooked big toe, but at least it’s still attached to my foot.
Do I win something?

You yelled, “I feel good!”?

You know how when you’re a kid you’re fascinated with sword fighting and knives and such, and you and your moron friend take two butcher knives from your mom’s knife rack outside and find an old apple crate; and then the two of you kneel on opposite sides of it and start chopping madly on the wood just to see the chips fly?

And then your friend swings just a little wide and slashes open your chest and blood starts pouring down your scrawny nine-year old body and you can’t breath because you’re going into shock and you go running down the street for home leaving a trail of blood spatter that would satisfy the most jaded forensic examiner? And somebody grabs you and takes you to your apartment and your mother screams and you end up with 15 stitches in your chest, which is barely wide enough to accommodate them?

I really hated that. Especially the stitching up part. And the removing of the bandages later on. R-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-p!

You know when you’re biking home from work - because you’re trying to be healthy - and it’s after dark, and you get to the ten yard long bridge and you decide it would be “safer” to ride on the bridge’s sidewalk, only the “sidewalk” is about 12 inches wide, so you go slow? And you’re going so slow that the bike stops acting like its own gyroscope, and after a couple of near misses, you finally do keel over into the street where the traffic is?

And you scare the nice people in the car so badly they pull over and try to convince you to let them take you to the hospital, but you’re all “'tis but a scratch”, because nothing really hurts? Because your amygdala and your adrenal glands are in top notch shape and flooded you with enough adrenaline that you don’t even remember hitting the ground, just “shitshitshitshitUPUPUPUPUP!”?

So, you figure you’re not that hurt, just a couple of scrapes, and home is less than a mile away, so you’ll just walk it, because, strangely enough, the bike is a little bent, and besides, your left wrist isn’t working so well?

Yeah, about the time you get home is when the adrenaline wears off, and you realize a) your left forearm really hurts, b) you have roadrash on both hands, the outside of your left knee, and the inside of your right knee, and that c) when your roomie sees you, she immediately stops what she’s doing, grabs the first aid kit, a towel, creates a sling for your arm, puts gauze on the bleedy parts, and takes you to the ER? And the ER, where you’ve always waited a minimum three hours, makes you sit for five minutes - just long enough for your left knee to stop working - and then takes you back?

And when the doctor points out the proximal fracture of your ulna, and you ask “hey, does this mean I get the good drugs?” and he says “Oh, yeah. Good drugs for you.”

Good times. Good times.

Also, did you know that the palms of your hands don’t bruise very much. They hurt like hell, and all the blood drains down into your wrists, so you have a week long parade of colors halfway down your forearm.

You know how after you’ve just brewed a gallon of tea and you’re putting the brand new glass pitcher into the fridge, but it slips by the handle and shatters glass and tea all over the stone tile floor and even after you’ve cleaned up the mess your cat continues to fish out little chunks of glass from under the stove and refrigerator to play with for years afterward?

Yeah, I hate that.

You know how sometimes you really want to open a bag and it seems like it should be really easy but you just can’t quite get it until finally you start to question your masculinity? Not only that, but you are in front of like five other classmates at a house party your professor is holding and oh wowzers some of the cute chicks are watching you? So, rather than flail desperately with your pathetic forearms you decide ‘fuck this bag’ and get the sharp ginzu knife? Then, in a masterstroke of sake-induced brilliance, instead of slicing the bag you decide to impale it to create a hole so that THEN, finally then you can burst this godforsaken bag with your bear hands?

Oh yes, that worked brilliantly. The cut on my finger could have been worse, but when the bleeding didn’t sto, the professor calmly yet firmly insisted you should go to the hospital, so that instead of eating delicious food and hot chicks you get to wait in line at the ER?

Yeah, I hate that.
Epilogue: I got in and out of the hospital and back to the party in 90 minutes. It was still going on :slight_smile:

Most of you win!

Although my foot hurts. I can’t decide whether it’s the wound (which is really very small) or a bruise, because what I felt first that kept me from realizing the knife had wounded me in a very knifely way, was the blunt pin of something relatively heavy hitting my foot.

I’m keeping an eye on it, though…who knows how meatloaf grease helps cooties cootitize?