Hmmm? Isn't it? Banana?

Ouch

Bizarre injury story.

Scene setting:
I have had a shitty week, so decided to spoil myself and buy something nice and easy to eat on the way home from work. I was hit by a huge wave of apathy upon entering the shop and was unable to choose for ages, but eventually managed to settle on a bag of pre-cooked muscles and some nice bread. Yum.

So, I cut the bread, butter it, and put it on a plate. I put the muscles and the sauce into the pan to heat up, deciding that a bowl would be the best serving device to avoid shells falling off the plate and making a mess (ha-fucking-ha. Read on...).

So far so good.

I decide that, as I have managed to make dinner being ready coincide with a programme I wanted to watch coming on, I would eat my dinner on the sofa. I place the plate of bread on the floor, fetch the bottle of wine and glass from the kitchen and put them next to the bread and sit down, placing the bowl of muscles and sauce beside me on the sofa.

So far so good.

It was at this exact point that I was gripped with an odd, half cramp/half itch, spasm at the top rear of my left leg - a kind of violently itchy arse cheek, if you will. I react instinctively as this discomfort grips me, and lean on my right arm to raise myself up to grab my arse and attempt to alleviate this strange sensation. It was at this point that, as the devil farted furiously in my face, the bowl of muscles (and did I mention the hot sauce?) tips over in slow motion and spreads right across the sofa, soaking my arse and my trousers in the process with boiling dinner.

I was, in short, and to put it another way, scalded with hot muscle juice on my bottom. Although I wouldn't care to describe it like that in public again, as I am sure you can understand.

Because my trousers were soaked, I was getting quite badly scalded (I actually just got up and checked in the mirror to see if it had left a mark... No. Really - it hadn't). But also, because the sofa (rented flat, remember) was soaked in juice, I felt I had conflicting actions requiring my attention. So I pulled my trousers down to just above my knees to remove the hot soaked material from contacting my back-end (temporarily dealing with issue 1) and waddled, at surprising speed given my state of partial undress, to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth to try and rescue the sofa (issue 2) from smelling of seafood for the foreseeable future. As I was waddling back and forward with my trousers down, with red and scalded arse hanging out, I did feel rather foolish but praised my foresight in shutting the blinds when I got in this evening...

So, instead of the rather relaxing and gentle evening that I had intended, I have spent it alternately washing down and drying off a sofa. Although I have managed to relieve the tedium inherent in this somewhat by shouting "fuck" and "stupid fucking twat" at the top of my voice at random intervals. Not making me feel a whole lot better at the moment though, I might add. Still, early days. Maybe if I shout it a little louder.

Or perhaps twice as often.

Or both.

posted by Brock @ Thursday, November 04, 2004