Heard that before years before in other venues and formats but still funny!
I smell an urban myth...
The bug rammed into the garage door, behind which his old man was working on another vehicle. All we heard was "Gawd d/mn" and a bunch of other expletives.
We were laughing so hard it took us ten minutes to get back to my friend's house.
Snowboard!
...
Playing football in HS. Damn nasty break too. Spent about 6 weeks on my back. And the drugs sucked.
Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get em clean And so she thought she'd soak 'em in a bucket o' benzine. It worked all right. She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd do
With all that bucket load of high explosive residue. She knew that it was dangerous to scatter it around, For Grandpa liked to throw his lighted matches on the ground. Somehow she didn't dare to pour it down the kitchen sink, And what the heck to do with it, poor Ma jest couldn't think.
Then Nature seemed to give the clue, as down the garden lot She spied the edifice that graced a solitary spot, Their Palace of Necessity, the family joy and pride, Enshrined in morning-glory vine, with graded seats inside; Jest like that cabin Goldylocks found occupied by three, But in this case B-E-A-R was spelt B-A-R-E---- A tiny seat for Baby Bare, a medium for Ma, A full-sized section sacred to the Bare of Grandpapa.
Well, Ma was mighty glad to get that worry off her mind, And hefting up the bucket so combustibly inclined, She hurried down the garden to that refuge so discreet, And dumped the liquid menace safely through the centre seat.
Next morning old Grandpa arose; he made a hearty meal, And sniffed the air and said: `By Gosh! how full of beans I feel.
Darned if I ain't as fresh as paint; my joy will be complete With jest a quiet session on the usual morning seat; To smoke me pipe an' meditate, an' maybe write a pome, For that's the time when bits o' rhyme gits jiggin' in me dome.'
He sat down on that special seat slicked shiny by his age, And looking like Walt Whitman, jest a silver-whiskered sage, He filled his corn-cob to the brim and tapped it snugly down, And chuckled: `Of a perfect day I reckon this the crown.' He lit the weed, it soothed his need, it was so soft and sweet:
And then he dropped the lighted match clean through the middle seat.
His little grand-child Rosyleen cried from the kichen door: `Oh, Ma, come quick; there's sompin wrong; I heared a dreffel roar; Oh, Ma, I see a sheet of flame; it's rising high and higher... Oh, Mummy dear, I sadly fear our comfort-cot's caught fire.'
Poor Ma was thrilled with horror at them words o' Rosyleen. She thought of Grandpa's matches and that bucket of benzine; So down the garden geared on high, she ran with all her power, For regular was Grandpa, and she knew it was his hour. Then graspin' gaspin' Rosyleen she peered into the fire, A roarin' soarin' furnace now, perchance old Grandpa's pyre....
But as them twain expressed their pain they heard a hearty cheer---- Behold the old rapscallion squattinn' in the duck pond near, His silver whiskers singed away, a gosh-almighty wreck, Wi' half a yard o' toilet seat entwined about his neck....
He cried: `Say, folks, oh, did ye hear the big blow-out I made? It scared me stiff - I hope you-uns was not too much afraid? But now I best be crawlin' out o' this dog-gasted wet.... For what I aim to figger out is----WHAT THE HECK I ET?'
Very soon after the start of the game, I dropped a pass and tried to pick up the ball by leaning far over the donkey's withers. The herder popped him from behind, the donkey of course threw his butt in the air, my head was the first thing to hit the floor and my right shoulder was the second. I got up mad enough to fight, but that arm didn't seem up to it. I spent the night in the hospital and got surgery on the collarbone the next morning. Still have the souvenir piece of wire in there too.
In about 1988 my dad heard this story first hand from the mother of the man it happen to. He was visiting the church he had help start 20 years before at the time. She felt it necessary to explain why Junior could not make it to the reunion. The story was pretty much the same as told here except it happen at his mothers house in rural Washington. The next year my dad spoke at a convention of about 200 navy chaplains and told the story there. He used the title “You think you have had a bad day.” I went to third grade with him but he wasn’t the 6’ 2” 30 pound he was when the story happen. He was also working on the patio not in the house. True,