Posts Tagged ‘danger’

This Was No Lightsaber

Wednesday, May 4th, 2011

Late in my freshmen year of college, I was in my then-girlfriend’s dorm room, doing what college kids do. Which is to say that Marie was writing an essay, while I was idly sitting around explaining the difference between a Koopa Troopa and turtle to her roommate, Jess. I was on the lower bunk, Jess’s bed hanging over me. This allowed me to acknowledge both women in the room without having to turn my head very much. Ideal and efficient.

Reaching a crescendo in my nerdy diatribe, I found myself needing to sit upright to really hammer home a Nintendo fact. I wrapped my hands around the edge of Jess’s bed and pulled myself forward. This was almost like a pull-up, but I was sitting down and also there is no physical benefit. My feet firmly planted on the ground, and my head poking out from between the bunk beds. I continued to talk about Nintendo when –

Thwack!

I was interrupted when something dropped out of Jess’s bed and conked me square in the head. It took me a few seconds to register what had happened, but the sounds of this rubbery object hitting the floor made both girls turn around. Instinctively, I reached down to pick it up. It was bright purple, firm rubber, and a familiar shape. I began wielding it like I had just picked up Samuel L. Jackson’s lightsaber, when my eyes finally spoke to my brain. This was no lightsaber. It was a purple vibrator.

My brain contemplated where that had been and managed to communicate with my hand. I dropped that thing faster than Snoop Dogg with a hot potato. Unfortunately, my girlfriend didn’t quite understand what was happening and had also followed her lesser base instincts to pick up something off of the floor. She immediately regretted it and the veiny purple vibrator hit the floor for the 3rd time in as many minutes.

Jess turned around in her chair. She looked at the floor. Then she looked back up at me. She calmly and quietly asked:

“Oh, could you just put that back up there?
Thanks.”

Crashing Dave’s Moped

Monday, March 14th, 2011

I haven’t written anything funny in a while, so let me tell you a story.

Between my sophomore and junior years of college, I spent a particularly horrible summer living in Vermont with my then-girlfriend, Rachel. We lived in a small courtyard of cookie-cutter apartments called Candlelight Terrace. Early in the summer a friend from college had left a moped in our care. Before we go on let me tell you a little about Dave.

I met Dave on my first day of college. His real name was Aaron, but we all called him Dave because one day he told us to. He was a fairly childish, a wonderful cartoonist, and spent more time playing Grand Theft Auto in my dorm room than he did sleeping in his. He dropped out of college before our sophomore year when his dad discovered that Dave spent less time in his classes than he did eating candy.

Anyway, Dave had – on a whim – bought a moped he saw tethered to a light post for $100. For whatever reasons I cannot even begin to explain, Dave decided the best place to leave this barely function moped was outside of our apartment. It stayed there all summer.

During a cookout with Rachel’s family I decided to give the ol’ hog a ride. I jumped on the little blue moped, cranked the pedals, and went rip-roaring around Candlelight Terrace. Never have I felt so free. The wind was blowing through my hair. I was driving in a circle at 15 miles per hour. Suddenly, I realized that I could not slow down. This was due to several circumstances:

  1. One of the hand brakes worked, one did not.
  2. I did not know which was the brake any how.
  3. Since the parking lot was a circle, every time I would turn, I would also accelerate, as there was no way to turn and not twist the accelerator.

I figured that I was not going to be stopping under my own power, so I might as well hit something that looks unimportant. One of our neighbors had an old, rusty pick-up truck. It had dings all over it and pieces of the body were hanging off. I aimed for one of the back tires. The bike stopped immediately and bounced back. I did not. I was tossed off of the bike and into the side of the truck – leaving a dent in the truck and huge bruise on my shoulder. The force of the impact had caused rust from all over the truck to fall to the tar.

I walked the moped back to the cookout, my pride aching about as much as my shoulder. The front light had fallen out of the frame. Though, when I took a closer look, I discovered the light was apparently held in place by a bit of duct tape. That made for an easy fix.

A month and a half later, Dave swung by to collect his bike. He took one, brief look at it and screamed “Who crashed my bike!” I don’t know how he knew, but he did.

He then sold the bike for $50.

 

My Cat Is Trying to Kill Me

Tuesday, November 30th, 2010

I am now giving in to the pressure of the internet and I am going to write a post about my cat. This is quite possibly the lowest thing you can do on the internet. It’s just barely above slapping some Impact font with a 2px black outline over a photo of a cat.

This past summer, I was home from work with the flu or a hangover or temporary diabetes or something. I had been talking about getting a kitten for sometime, but never could due to a series of banal excuses (such as a previous room mate’s allergies). Now free of such trivial issues, I could get all the kittens I want! Ever a believer in the scientific law of “shit or get off the pot,” I began lurking CraigsList for casual kitten encounters. Upon finding a poorly worded ad that described a kitten that was just the right size and color, I boarded a train and rode north to basically New Hampshire and came home several hours later with a kitten.

She is helping me work.

I named her Sisyphus.

Sisyphus is a lunatic. Her favorite activity is climbing the walls. More accurately, attempting to climb the walls. She jumps about 4 feet in the air, grasps on with her claws, and slides down – producing a deafening screech, like a dozen fingernails on a really big chalkboard. Sissy’s second favorite activity is meowing in the kitchen at nothing. This is adorable, so I let it pass.

This is her killing things.

Another favorite activity of little Sissy’s is to cause sleep deprivation. I already have a rocky relationship with sleeping. I love sleeping, like a wine connoisseur loves wine. But, I hate going to sleep, like a crippled wine connoisseur hates climbing stairs.  Sleeping usually equates to about 45 minutes of rotating under my covers until my body stops moving, and then about 5 hours of jolting awake in 45 minute intervals. I sleep most solidly in the last few hours before the alarm ruins my life. Naturally, this is when Sisyphus wants attention.

Night terrors, thy name be kitten.

Around 4am, Sisyphus realizes that something is missing in her life. The taste of sweet, succulent flesh. Any flesh will do, but mine seems to be preferred. Or should I say prefur’d? No, spell check is indicating I was right the first time.

When Sissy gets the taste for flesh, nothing can stop her. She will slowly skulk across my bed, find a patch of exposed skin – be it my arms, my legs, the small of my back, or the back of my neck – and she will begin feverishly licking it. This is not just licking, but Detective Monk-style obsessive compulsive behavior. If I kick her out of my room, Sissy sits outside my door, yowling. Then she starts throwing herself into the door.

I’m sure you must be thinking “Oh, kitty wuvs you with kisses!” or some such bullshit. No. Don’t fall for it. It’s a trick.

Do not trust this face.

Let’s just set aside that this tiny, 3 pound kitten is trying to eat me nightly. What she is doing is akin to torture. This is sleep deprivation! Do you know where else they do this? Guantanamo Bay. Sisyphus does not give a shit about the Geneva Convention.

Torture was only the start.

Being a man of proper hygiene, I had just stepped out of my evening shower. My hair was scented with the finest of Head & Shoulders, my wet, dripping body wrapped in but a towel. It was erotic, I tell you that.  I step out of the bathroom, clothe myself enough to not feel ashamed to walk by the windows, and finish my grooming process. Part of this process is to clean my ears with an off-brand Q-tip. I nonchalantly inserted the off-brand Q-tip into my head when, out of nowhere, Sisyphus leaps to the top of a nearby chair, and rushes into my arm. If not for quick thinking and nearly inhuman reflexes, I would have a Q-tip lodged into my brain. I would have died, seizing, vomiting, and wetting myself.

Murder murder murder kill kill kill.

War. War never changes.

At this point in time – by which I mean as of the moment I finish this sentence – Sissy is barely 6 months old. Every day, she is growing. Her legs becoming more powerful. Her teeth sharper. Her knowledge of the vital pressure points on the human body all the more detailed. If Sisyphus continues to escalate at her current rate, she will be able to leap over my head in 2 months time. In 5 months time, she will keep me awake indefinitely. In a year, well… I might be dead, my torso hollowed out, transformed into a morbid cockpit, Sisyphus sitting within my ribcage, controlling my body by pulling on my tendons like a terrible marionette.

Isn't she cute though?

That Bag Full of Darts We Released Into the Sky

Monday, November 1st, 2010

There was a thick sheet of ice covering the entire yard, which shimmered in what little sunlight there was on this mostly overcast afternoon. Tristan lay on his back, groaning. I stood on the rock path, dumbfounded. Tyler just looked up.

Fifteen minutes ago, we found a helium tank outside Tyler’s bedroom. It must have been left from some gathering his parent’s had organized a few weeks back. The tank was about a quarter full, but the balloons had been used up. Tristan, Tyler, and I stood around the tank, our mental synapses firing. The obvious conclusion was to fill a big, black garbage bag full of helium and bring it outside with us. Tristan handled the tank and tied the knot tight. The bag o’ helium bounced and bobbed in his hands as we stepped out the sliding glass doors.

We made our way to Tyler’s Jetta. Tyler was familiar with navigating his frozen front yard, so he took a few steps over the ice sheet to the walking path. I took little baby steps. Tristan was unprepared and slipped on an incline; the bag o’ helium slipped from his hands. Tristan laid on the iced-over lawn, watching as the bag rose 20 feet and got stuck in a tree. Being conscious about the environment, Tyler decided that we had to get the bag down before it killed a dozen birds. We tried swatting at the bloated bag with a broom, but we only managed to graze the bag slightly. We needed another solution.

Inside Tyler’s bedroom were all sorts of weapons. He has knives in a small display case. He had katanas hanging on his wall, from when his father would visit his home in Japan. On his desk, Tyler had a blowgun and a bag of darts. Naturally, we grabbed the blowgun. Really now, who would pass up an opportunity that might actually require a blowgun?

We moved carefully back out to the tree. The hope was to puncture the bag, causing it to deflate, gently lowering it back down to Earth. However, we hit a snag. The darts were heavy enough to puncture the bag, but not strong enough to pass through – so any hole produced by the needle was plugged by the flight at the end of the dart.  In a few minutes time, we were looking at a big, black garbage bag full of helium and darts. I loaded the blowgun, took a mighty breath – the cold air stinging my lungs – then fired the fastest dart I could. This managed to blow through one side of the bag, only to get stuck in the other. At least we had a hole.

I believe the working theory at this point was that the darts would weigh the bag down. With that theory in mind, we once again began swatting at the bag with a broom. The broom finally connected with the bag, sending it sailing out from under the tree. Our theory was immediately proven wrong when the bag kept getting higher and higher. And higher.

We jumped into Tyler’s Jetta and began to tail the bag, which was becoming a black dot in the sky. We lost the bag over the high school. We promptly forgot about the entire event and went on with our lives.

This is how we released a garbage bag full of darts into the sky. Hopefully nothing was killed.