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A case of the Gregs.
Sep. 23rd, 2008 04:05 amWhen I was in high school a person I knew - I'll call him "Greg" (for t'was his name) - was a card-carrying member of the Cairns Base Hospital's "Accident Prone Club." What this meant was that whenever Greg swallowed glass, caught something in his zipper or used his face as a brake pad, the lady behind the glass would look up from her romance novel and say "Oh, hi Greg" before once again sending him down the hall to have his parts anointed with gunk.
As I get older, I think of Greg more often, as I am becoming Greg.
There once was a time, as a limbre theatre student, that I could pretty much out-ninja anyone. Occasionally I'd get that thing where I was moving so fast that everything else slowed right down - enough that I once dodged two near-point-blank headshots from a paintball gun just by moving my head one way and then another, and then shot the other guy in the neck.
That was... some time ago, now.
The other day I tried to make a sandwich. This involved a frypan for sausages, a sandwich press, and the usual. I also tried to make a cup of tea at the same time. Here's what actually happened:
I boiled the water. I fried the sausages. I made the tea. I put the mug beside the plate. I assembled the sandwiches, with the sausages still in the pan. I opened the press.
The sandwich fell apart, showering my pants with gunk. Exclaiming vociferously about what a shame this was, I made a half-arsed attempt to stop it collapsing further. In doing so I upset whatever the hell I'd accidentally left the mug half-resting on, sending scalding tea flooding across the bench, showering my pants with gunk.
At this point some smoke from the pan hit the fire alarm, which was about twenty feet away, and it went off with an ear-splitting screech that doesn't quit.
Covered in gunk I waddle up the stairs like a gunslinger with a spectacular case of hemorrhoids, fumble the alarm off the wall, and muffle the shrieks against my chest while trying to make the damn thing shut up. It does. I put it on the stairs. I straighten up and crack my head on the corner of the stairwell ceiling.
Then the house caved in. Actually it didn't, but it would have been thematically consistent.
As I get older, I think of Greg more often, as I am becoming Greg.
There once was a time, as a limbre theatre student, that I could pretty much out-ninja anyone. Occasionally I'd get that thing where I was moving so fast that everything else slowed right down - enough that I once dodged two near-point-blank headshots from a paintball gun just by moving my head one way and then another, and then shot the other guy in the neck.
That was... some time ago, now.
The other day I tried to make a sandwich. This involved a frypan for sausages, a sandwich press, and the usual. I also tried to make a cup of tea at the same time. Here's what actually happened:
I boiled the water. I fried the sausages. I made the tea. I put the mug beside the plate. I assembled the sandwiches, with the sausages still in the pan. I opened the press.
The sandwich fell apart, showering my pants with gunk. Exclaiming vociferously about what a shame this was, I made a half-arsed attempt to stop it collapsing further. In doing so I upset whatever the hell I'd accidentally left the mug half-resting on, sending scalding tea flooding across the bench, showering my pants with gunk.
At this point some smoke from the pan hit the fire alarm, which was about twenty feet away, and it went off with an ear-splitting screech that doesn't quit.
Covered in gunk I waddle up the stairs like a gunslinger with a spectacular case of hemorrhoids, fumble the alarm off the wall, and muffle the shrieks against my chest while trying to make the damn thing shut up. It does. I put it on the stairs. I straighten up and crack my head on the corner of the stairwell ceiling.
Then the house caved in. Actually it didn't, but it would have been thematically consistent.
