When I was a teenager I gave my mom the finger.
Sorry, you start the thread you go first.
Bfl
Fooling around an open pit coal mine. Friend and I decided to sit on a ledge about 120 feet high. Left and went down to look up at where he had been sitting.
There was a deep fracture in the ledge right where we had been sitting. Only God knows why that didn’t collapse with us on it.
I landed on a runway once at an uncontrolled airport and a twin engine beech craft almost hit me head on taking off in the wrong direction. Scared the hell out of me...
Fifty years ago, when I was a senior in high school, I was riding in a very small car with three friends. Another car ran a stop sign and hit our car in the left front fender. Fortunately, none of us were severely injured. A few scratches.
I was taking recycling out and I stepped off the deck and I twisted my foot so bad that it “knocked me out” for a while or at least it seemed that way....At the moment, death would have been welcomed especially after the pain started in my foot after the shock wore off.
Hard to tell.
It says right here I dodged a bullet...so far!!!
I was a roofer in 1974 at 15 years old. They believed me when I said I was 18. Working on a 15 story flat roof in Arlington, Va when a portion of it caved in from rot. My leg went through and would’ve gobbled me up if it weren’t for a burly 300lb guy named “White Milk” who grabbed me. He pulled me up and said...”grab a shovel and get back to work.”
It happened when I barely made it out alive out of a Berlin bunker.
Back country skiing alone and did an upside down vertical head plant into a tree well. Before I panicked, I decided to move my hand and sure enough there was a thick branch that I was able to grab and pull myself to breath again.
Back country skiing alone and did an upside down vertical head plant into a tree well. Before I panicked, I decided to move my hand and sure enough there was a thick branch that I was able to grab and pull myself to breath again.
So I go down and cut the power (220V, of course) and proceed to pull the oven apart, getting (eventually) to the fan and detaching it. Many, many sharp edges and exposed electrical terminals in there.
Ok. So I "fix" the fan (this involved wrapping a piece of tape around the shaft to hold the plastic fan blade assembly in place), replace it, put everything back, button it all up, and power it up from the basement. Everything works. I'm a hero.
For about three days.
Then the fan starts to make the same noise again.
Back to the basement, cut the juice. Pull it apart. Repeat every step. More tape. Motor re-install. Put things back. Button up. Power up. Noise fixed.
This time the fix lasted about a week. Then... there's the noise again.
This time I'm peeved. No, I'm pissed. This is a key component of the story.
Go get my tools. Pull the damn thing apart. Go in to grab that damn fan... with the 220V still on.
Because I was so emotional, I forgot the crucial step of turning off the power.
I immediately contact two hot terminals. One contact point was on my left forearm, the other was on the back of my right wrist. I could see a flash. I knew I was a conductor. I knew I was in trouble. I saw my field of view begin to shrink, just like they say in textbooks. It was like my peripheral vision was going black, and the hole through which I was looking at my arms shoved into the oven was getting smaller and smaller. I didn't seem to be able to get my arms to pull out of the oven.
Finally, I gave a big yell, and with all my might (it seemed) pushed my way back away from the wall-mounted oven.
Burns on the back of my hand, and more burns - and a gash - on my left forearm. My wife is crying, and I'm shaking like a leaf.
I hired someone to work on the oven the next day, and have done so every time since.
Emotions. Emotions can get you killed.
I've had a few close brushes with death.
The closest one hasn't come yet.
That's probably true for most of us.
In 1984 I was walking down the sidewalk along Oxford St in London and a coupling for connecting intersecting scaffolding braces was dropped from many stories up. It landed with a loud crash onto the concrete a foot ahead of me. Probably that ... and the time I gave my mother the finger.
My life threating experiences have to remain anonymous, but I did see this the other day and would not want to ever go through it myself!
It is a review of a hair removal cream, posted at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/product-reviews/B000KKNQBK/ref=cm_cr_pr_hist_1?ie=UTF8&filterBy=addOneStar&showViewpoints=0
Enjoy.
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Please god make it stop, 30 Aug 2012
By Benjboi - See all my reviews
This review is from: Veet for Men Hair Removal Gel Creme 200 ml (Personal Care)
I have always been rather blessed with the hair around my beef thermometer and knackers which in my youth was a rich mahogany hue, with a hint of curl forming a garden arch around my tackle but over the years, whilst the hair on my head has remained largely unchanged my groin and happy trail has somewhat degraded. Now in my twilight years it has faded to resemble dumbledores beard, which although uncanny in its resemblence is a bit of a mood killer when I get the love wand out for the wife so on a whim I decided that the only solution was to go back as nature intended and expelliarmus my thatch.
I first bought a competitors product to perform the aforementioned task and adhereing strictly to the 6 minute rule I washed off to find not a single short and curly had been removed. I subsequently took another stab this time leaving the product on for 30 minutes and apart from my wifes hilarity at comparing me to a lifesized banana split I had no more success. Clearly I needed something more radical for my solution. It was then that a former friend pointed out the reviews on this product and suggested I give it a try. I read most of the reviews but considering my lack of success with the previous product assumed that my pubic beard was made of stronger stuff. Not dissimilar to supermans hair that suspends the half ton weight.
I rushed out to buy the product from my local chemist and paid little heed to the fact that it was in a locked cabinet with the perscription grade medicines and also ignored the pharmacists questions when supplying me the gel. With hindsight I should have listened when he warned me to take great care during application not to get this anywhere! I thought it was hyperbole I didn’t think he meant it!
With the ball and chain at work I thought I would suprise her with a hairless chain and balls and set to work. The cream/gel applied easily with a rather pleasant soothing effect, I placed a towel on my leather sofa and sat down to watch bargain hunt whilst the magic cream worked. After a short while I noticed a warming sensation not unlike the effect of putting tiger balm on a sprain. this should have been my third warning as anyone who has ever put tiger balm on and then accidentally got it on any sensitive area will know the pain is unlike anything you will have ever experienced, unless you’ve tried veet on your taters!
The heat increased exponentially and what started out as a warming sensation became a full blown inferno on my crotch and had me sitting forwards huffing, puffing and sweating as tried to resist the tempation to wash it off and let the full 6 minutes pass. The heat, pain and smell of barbequed beef increased so quickly that I went into a panic and launched off the sofa towards my staircase however being sweaty and having laminated flooring throughout I slipped and slid across the floor like a fantasia elephant, stark bollock naked with only cream hiding my old chap right in front of my lounge window looking out onto my cul de sac, hit the wall and fell to the floor. After seriously damaging my knee in the impact I was now unable to climb the stairs and was struggling to get off the floor due to the cupious amounts of blood and sweat that was now coating the floor beneath me.
Worse was yet to come as by now the sweat on my crotch had started to spread the cream and it was slowly but certainly creeping its way between my pressed hams and it was only a matter of time before it hit my chocolatier. In a final act of desperation I dragged myself across the floor, launched crack first at the tropical fish tank and passed out!
I awoke to find my wife standing in the living room in disbelief staring at her stark bollock naked husband, melted sofa and towel, laminate which was slowly fizzing under the remains of my pubic sweat, blood and veet and about £200 worth of dead tropical fish and a busted tank. My yoghurt slinger now looks like a massive overblown red jelly bean, where my danglers used to be is a pouch of skin that looks like santas sack and the boys have disappeared so far up inside me they are featuring on crimewatch next week under missing persons! The shame of my silver brilo pad has been replaced by an inability to walk straight or stand for any period of time. I now talk with a scottish twang in my accent to explain why I am suddenly wearing kilts all of the time. My wife (now ex) has been sectioned with PTS syndrome and I now refuse to take my clothes off infront of anyone, mirrors or in fact any reflective surface in case I offend myself or anyone else with my convincing impression of kuato and hellboys lovechild.
On the plus side I am now hairless but it seems like a heavy price to pay!
I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that it happened sometime between October 1970 and October 1971. The ones that missed me were probably more deadly than the ones that hit me, so I’m not sure which of those highly emotional events take top banana. Everything that has happened since has been free bonus time.
I got shot at when I was in the wrong part of town. I was climbing out of my Ford Bronco when I heard a gunshot and the bullet whiz zed by me and hit the inside of the door. If I had been a split second longer getting out, I would have taken one in the lower back.