Foxy People

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Sometimes posts don't need titles.

What else is there to do on a Saturday, when I have a huge speech due next week? There's a time to blog, readers, and then there's a time for silly shenanigans. Graduation can wait. You dreamboats sure can't.

I winked charmingly just then. Permission to swoon.

So here it is. I like to think it needs no introduction, but strangers in airports get all iffy about abrupt knife stories.

The Knife and Me: A Tale of Woe, Adversity, and Rue.

As a young lad, roundabouts age 10, I wished most seriously for a trampoline of my very own. Being a poor child - all I made was sandwiches - I couldn't purchase one myself, so I had to make do.

My boyz and I scouted the streets of Troy for an abandoned trampoline (this is the street name for it, but don't say it unless you're street-savvy) or something shiny that would make us forget about it.

We came upon a specifically gross one. And I don't just throw out that adjective all willy-nilly.

We jumped for hours on that eyesore before realizing we could make the setup more interesting by moving that playhouse over there and positioning it in such a way as to create a makeshift Boss Throne that we could jump off of.

It wasn't mine. I swear. I would never own a girly playhouse like that. Yeah, no, we stole that. From a little girl - a baby. She cried and we socked her a good one in the jaw for it. Man up, we said. Definitely not mine.

Next to the trampoline (careful) was a glorious tree. It had obviously been around for ages. It had stood the test of time. If it had a brain, I like to think it would've contained a deep and powerful wisdom.

Naturally, we would have to cut that baby down to arrange the throne situation.

But we had no brawn. And we had no axe. Before we could think of anything else that actually gets trees horizontal-like, I bolted for my house. I returned no later than two seconds after, with a massive butcher knife in hand - a grin plastered on my stupid face.

You think that's bad? I was greeted with cheers.

My brain had envisioned each of us taking turns bouncing up and, gravity be damned, taking a few dozen whacks at the tree whilst suspended in the air.

If that isn't genius, then I'm not wielding a knife. Oh snap, though.

My plan could not come to fruition, however, because through divine intervention God saved my dignity.

As I climbed onto the trampoline, I noticed it was a bit tricky, what with the knife in my hand. But I couldn't put it on the ground, because I wouldn't be able to reach it once I'd gotten to the top. And I couldn't put it up on the trampoline, as it would slide towards me once I'd gotten to the top - resulting in injury.

So I kept it. In my hand.

At the exact moment when I should have used my weight and momentum to swing my body over the metal poles and onto the safety of tarp - I instead used my weight and momentum to plunge the knife into my shin and, upon reaction, wiggle it around a little bit.

I don't think I've ever passed out before, but if I had to pick a moment when I may have - it was then.

I honestly don't know how I got from this moment to when I was recovering on my couch.
I'll end the story here, cause this is when my mom beat me.

Funny enough, it didn't leave a scar or need stitches. This leads many people to thinking I made the whole thing up. To those people I say "HEY" really loudly, to startle them.

I have nothing to add.

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