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I have, since then, lived on a farm with pigs; I am certain I was louder.The pipe could only be removed from my hand with expedience one way; by rolling it back off. And thus, this no longer bored but still rather stupid 7 year old got his first ride to the ER, and all the things that went into piecing together a rather mangled right hand, culuminating in a nice cast, suitable for signing.She only denounced me as the stupidest of those stupid boys who wound up with a really gross hand for a while.Perhaps she didn't appreciate the cooties comments, either.For them, the tail gets lifted, and they get sprayed.*DISCLAIMER*: sometimes, it doesn't pay to drink or eat while reading this h'yar. From the old website archives, with a bit of updating...we'll take a little break from the email scammers, while I revisit some of my better, self-deprecating columns, like this true story of a particularly stupid 7 year old 'n friends*Of all the sources for subject material out there, I still find myself to be a primary source for quality self-deprecation.

So this bored, stupid little boy with his imagination working overtime, stepped into the path of the pipe, intending to stop it short of the monkey bars.

At the age of 7, I was like most little boys: easily bored, obnoxious when bored, endowed with some imagination, and firm in the notion that little girls were the single, solitary creator and distributor of cooties. Part of that thought process came from having two older sisters who'd occasionally use me for a punching bag, so I really didn't think too highly of the gender back then.

Little did I know what was coming up a few years later, with the confluence of carbonating testosterone and RRrrrrowr, but I digress.

With the pipe now sitting atop my right hand, and against my forehead. And a millisecond later, I stopped everything else within earshot, with my version of ouch.

I'm told by witnesses that I shrieked like a stuck pig.

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