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Not to sound too morbid, but I think I figured out how I'm
going to die.
The other day I was driving to Target to get some tater tots. Traffic
was kinda backed up and I was traveling fairly slowly behind an
out-of-state Lexus that won the jackpot by having a license plate that
read "MEN 365." In reality it was off a few digits, but the notion of
this possibility still made me giggle immaturely. Suddenly the biggest
spider in the world plodded down my window and into my air conditioner
vent. I have no idea how this monster fit. I reacted by letting out a
hauntingly girly scream that actually made the spider chuckle. After
about six hours, I somehow regained my composure and drove to Target
to get said tots. And ultimately: constipation.
It's cool that this story has a happy ending, but let's consider what
deadly results could have...
resulted. Let's say I was going four
times the speed I was traveling in this story. That would have set me
in excess of 14 mph. Had I been traveling at such a white-knuckle
speed and seen said spider, my girly scream would have turned to a
girly scream... in a ditch. Not so funny now, is it?
After this, I imagine I would have called a tow truck and an annoyed
friend for a lift home. I would have needed a shower after the whole
ordeal and while taking off my clothes I would have fallen and hit my
head on the toilet.
This version of
the story has a bad ending. Mostly because I can't
afford one of those luxury padded toilet seats, but also due to my
irrational fear of seeing giant arachnids while driving.
I guess the main lesson I learned is I'm an idiot under pressure. I
remember one time I was
actually in danger, yet remained utterly calm.
One evening I was merging onto a highway when my car decided it would
be funny to Punk me by randomly performing a complete 180 on the wet
road.
"PUNK'D!" my car yelled as I obliviously twirled. Only I couldn't
hear it because I was too busy singing along to Robyn. I actually
laughed at the situation afterward and continued to drive home to a
cold, wet bed.
My earliest near-death experience was in kindergarten. And the funny
thing is it happened at my elementary school, as opposed to in a
friend's pool every time I attempted a "deep end visit" like every
other child in America. Lawsuits back then were taboo, so I didn't
really make a big deal about it at the time. So I guess I'll whine
about it now.
The school was hosting its annual "mini-fair," where students could
have fun by temporarily roaming free from the restraints of boys lines
and girls lines. Properly celebrating a mini-fair means bringing a
reasonable sum of money to burn on the following:
1. Chick-O-Stick
2. Face Painting
3. Pickle
4. Brown bag of popcorn
5. Carnival game "pick up a duck / win a broken yo-yo"
The above always ran $5 total, but you had only $4.50 and therefore
the embarrassing task of borrowing 50 cents from a teacher.
At one particularly zany mini-fair, the school organized horse rides.
My best friend at the time (I knew him two days) Avery persuaded me to
ride a horse with him. Apparently, as I would discover after sitting
on the horse for four seconds, I'm fucking terrified to all shit of
horses. Mostly because the horse did unexpected things like move and
make horse noises.
I cried. Not expected, childlike moans of discomfort, either.
More
of a nutso, "Oh my God, is somebody on fire over there?" sobbing.
Avery tried his best to comfort me, but I slapped his Chick-O-Stick
out of his hand. Even the horse cupped his hoof around his eyes,
shielding his shame from the other equine.
So yeah. Something stupid will kill me. Assuming my "Tim-shaped hole
in the roof of a barn" plan I have mapped out goes awry.
©2005 Tim Landry
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