Bonjour, Bandagers!
You may not know it to look at me, but I belong to a minority group (no, not that one). It's a group of people who are sadly endangered across the globe (usually by ourselves) and talked about in hushed whispers—lest we hear you talking about us, come over and you enter the radius of dangerous proximity.
Yes friends, I am accident prone.
It doesn't matter how well you secure an object to a shelf/table/loved one, if there's a way to trip over it, get it stuck in an orifice, or drop it on my foot, I shall not rest until I've found it and injured myself accordingly.
I've cut my tongue on potato chips. I've been stung by a bee inside a movie theatre, halfway through STIR OF ECHOES. I've tripped over a "please watch your step" sign and fallen down a ditch. I've stumbled over a chair, dropped the glass of water I was carrying over a (new) computer monitor, knocked the monitor on my foot and fallen through a window (I suppose I should be thankful the window was open and on the ground floor). I broke a tooth in a restaurant on a diamond that had fallen out of the chef's wedding ring and into a muffin they'd prepared and I was eating. I was attacked by a preying mantis that was hiding inside a plastic Xmas tree I was looking at in a K-Mart.
In short, I can take the simplest, most innocuous of outings and turn it into a highlight reel from the FINAL DESTINATION series.
-This morning, the Bruise Fairy (she's like the Tooth Fairy, but she carries a pillowcase full of doorknobs and hands out shiners instead of money) paid me another visit, when I recklessly decided to go out for lunch with one of my braver aunties (she actually comes within ten feet of me without wearing a full suit of armour and a mouth-guard).
The lunch itself went fine, in that I didn't break any bridgework on concealed gemstones in the baked goods, didn't miss my mouth with one of the chopsticks and poke it up my nostril, and didn't have to go to any of the various accident/emergency rooms where I know the staff by their first names.
However, on the way back to the car, my auntie and I took a shortcut through a department store's cosmetics area, and were immediately leaped upon by a Perfume ‘Ho—one of those almost maniacally cheerful pretty young things who looks not unlike a store mannequin sprung to alarming life and whose function it is to spray you with a sample of the latest designer cologne with the single-minded glee (and similar volume of liquid) as an American bomber squirting Agent Orange over Cong-infested jungle in ‘Nam.
This particular Perfume ‘Ho was gassing passersby with a sample of the Moschino fragrance "FUNNY." The name alone should have got my Irony Senses tingling, but alas, I remained ignorant.
My Auntie was squirted with a bukkake-load of Moschino musk. I smelled it, and made the crucial tactical error of joking "Hmm—doesn't smell very "FUNNY"—at which point the Perfume ‘Ho spritzed me with some of the perfume, we all had a good laugh, and the nice fragrance set me up for some hot, sweaty monkey sex with the hot DILF who was trying on sunglasses over at the other counter.
…Well, almost. What actually happened was after I made my little witticism, the Pefume ‘Ho did indeed jokingly spritz me with Moschino's "FUNNY"—only she didn't squirt it on my neck—she accidentally squirted a full blast of the caustic shit right in my eye.
Needless to say, I reacted in the calm, gentlemanly manner of clapping my hand to my face, shrieking like a castrati and blindly reeling about the store, possibly in the hope that I would be able to find and squirt myself with some OPIUM and that the name meant it had to have at least some Morphine in it. Meanwhile, my Auntie was shrieking obscenities at the Perfume ‘Ho, the Perfume ‘Ho was shrieking apologies to the pain-maddened, lumbering large mammal I had devolved into, and both of them were chasing me around the store with tissues and a bottle of water.
However, before they could reach me and deploy the soothing balm of H20 on my redder-than-Scott-Summers' eyeball, my flailing arms had found and connected with one of the large (8 or so feet tall) ornamental Xmas trees on display throughout the store. I crashed into it, and knocked it over, unbalancing myself and falling over—onto the hot DILF who was trying on sunglasses over at the other counter.
Alas, whilst I was trying (alright, I wasn't trying that hard) to remove my nose from DILF-guy's chest, the Xmas Tree, meanwhile, also fell over—onto the DILF dude's toddler. Said toddler was not, fortunately crushed by the plastic spruce—though she was showered with tinsel glitter, which got in her eyes, and made her scream almost as well as I did.
Another sales assistant had meanwhile rushed over, presumably to help DILF Guy escape from the deranged blue-haired fiend that had crushed his daughter and was now attempting to rape him amidst the sunglasses displays. Sales Assistant Guy managed to step on, and shatter one of the gaudy baubles that had rolled off the knocked over Xmas tree. Sales Assistant Guy wasn't wearing socks. Sales Assistant Guy sliced his ankle open quite neatly on a shard of Xmas ornament. I immediately recognized a kindred spirit.
In the end, though a toddler was severely glittered (could've been worse; it she could have been sprayed by *Gary* Glitter) and a plastic Xmas tree was thoroughly traumatized, noone was seriously hurt. My eye got better (and as a bonus, now smells really nice); cute DILF guy was most gracious about getting my face in his pecs and my hand on his upper, inner thigh and I'm sure that the Sales Assistant will adjust to his new peg-leg before New Year's is over.
Okay, I guess the stuff was kind of "FUNNY"…
