Toothy raccoon bit off manhood

This headline is precisely why I like British newspapers. They hold nothing back but also leave you wanting to read the story and find out the reason behind a raccoon chomping off some British dude's penis.

They went as far as identifying the man as a "pervert who was trying to rape the animal". It's no surprise that the guy was drunk, though. It is susprising that he didn't hail from Coon Rapids or Wisconsin because around these parts, that's where people get randy with wildlife.

What truly is surprising is that plastic surgeons are working to repair the damage. Why, though, would they fix this guy's penis? He's just going to try and sex up a raccoon again.

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Things you can't walk off

Walk it off. We've all heard this overly cliched phrase before and it usually relates to someone pissing and/or moaning about an injury that is minimal at best with "walk it off" being the ultimate solution to this person's bellyaching. However, there are some things you just can't get over by walking.

What are these things, though?

A severed leg.
That has to be the one non-life-ending injury that some cold, heartless bastard would mock and ridicule you for, yelling at you to "walk it off, bitch!" The nature of the injury, though, defies one to walk it off.

A steel-toed boot to the testicles.
As always, a swift kick to the nuts usually renders the kicked useless. Doubled over in pain, feeling like the testicles have been relocated to one's stomach, walking isn't usually an option.

A papercut to the tongue.
I found this out the other night as I paid the mortgage. First off, envelope glue tastes terrible. Secondly, I'd rather have a festering splinter in my finger than a papercut on my tongue. It really makes enjoying anything remotely tasty pure agony.

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Is it broken?

Many things break. I have a shelf in a closet dedicated to broken stuff. I intend to fix it but realistically speaking will probably end up throwing it out on cleanup day a few years down the road.

Sometimes things break for a reason, other times for no reason at all.

A combination of both reasons happened on Saturday morning as I tried to simultaneous gather and distribute stuff throughout the house. For whatever reason, as I rounded the corner from the dining room to the office, I took the corner a bit wider than usual and SMACK, right into the solid Maple door.

As usual, my foot bore the brunt of the imact and I winced, screamed and wondered aloud "Why now?".

Little did I know, my brother-in-law would be stopping by in a few minutes to help in installing a couple new windows and I'd find myself with a limp for the rest of the weekend.

I assumed that I had simply bruised my toes as I initially felt pain in all five little piggies. I went about my rounds. I mowed the leaves in the back yard, I cut trim for the new windows and I drove to Target. I also hiked up and down a steep mini-cliff in pursuit of a great wild bird photo I'd been scouting for a couple weeks.

It wasn't until about 8 PM Saturday night when I determined that pain from a foot to door encounter doesn't usually last all day. The last bit of my middle toe (left foot) matched the color of grape jelly. I checked its mobility and I was still able to move the little guy but at the end of the toe, bending it doesn't really check much.

Fortunately, toe injuries are nothing new to me. I've broken my pinky toe on the right foot three times. Smashing up the middle toe is new but not entirely new as far as toe injuries go.

Do I know for sure if it's broken? No. Do I really care? No. I'll just take it easy and maybe use this as an excuse to get a cool pimp cane. Am I alone, though, in breaking bones? What digits have you cracked? Show me your's and I'll show you mine.

Of nipples and swiss cake rolls

Have you ever slammed your nipple(s) in a car door? No? Well you are lucky.

No, I've never done that either but I have experienced some rather unfortunate nipple trauma in my time. The most recent memory of such an instance was a few summers ago as some of us friendly types encircled a bonfire swilling our booze. There was taunting which turned to chasing which turned to wrestling. Before I knew it, I was on the receiving end of the most severe nipple torture I had ever felt.

In short, it felt like this guy (I'll call him Adam for sake of anonymity) had placed two vise grips on my chest, held on tight and made a run for Iowa. I did not cry or scream like a little girl but I called him out for breaking some sort of nipple code. I have yet to exact my revenge on him but his time is coming.

So, what's your injury story? Did you slam your hand in a car door? Were you crushed by a pallet of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls? 'Fess up!

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And that's how you embarass yourself

Sometimes I'm just not a very graceful guy. Sure, right now you're thinking that guys are rarely graceful. Guys, in your definition, are muscly, ripply things that can fix cars, crush spiders and open jars of pickles. Well, you are right but inside every guy is some grace. I can dance without looking totally awkward and I have been known to trip and make it look intentional. But as luck would have it, things took a turn on Saturday.

It wasn't just any turn, it was a turn for the worse. It was just another totally lame suburban Saturday as we started the grocery buying expedition at Aldi Foods. Being hell-bent on low prices, I probably pissed away any savings by going to four separate grocery stores but I was brimming with pride after I paid for the first bunch of groceries.

Twelve bucks for groceries is a good deal these days. Think about it, when was the last time you bought an overflowing bag of groceries (paper bag) that only set you back twelve bucks without it being twelve loaves of bread?

Well, being proud and a gentleman, I carried the bulging sack of groceries out to the waiting car. This would later haunt me.

As I exited the automatic door, I took an immediate turn to the right. That's when I stopped... suddenly.

I felt a blunt but deep pain in the thigh and ankle of my right leg. I held the bag of groceries firmly in my arms which is basically the cause of this entire series of events. I heard metal chiming as I shifted the bag of groceries to my left.

This is when I looked down to notice that between the entrance and exit doors was on of those fancy, chromed-out door dividers that has the large rubber/plastic bumpers on the outside end.

That's right, I had managed to walk full-speed into the chromed-out metal door divider because the twelve buck bag (lacking a handle) of groceries obstructed my view of all things below my neck.

Of course, with me being me, I didn't just walk this off. My instinct was to wince in pain because, well, I was in pain. The only words out of my wide-open mouth were "there was a damn bar there". This got my wife's attention as she turned back from her position of waiting beside the car to see what I was blowing way out of proportion.

Needless to say, today my ankle looks like I was in a fistfight with a midget. I had never seen anyone get a black ankle but I have managed to do just that. It happened and it seemed that half of the residents of the Minneapolis area, specifically Savage, were there to see it. Ask around, I am sure you know a person who knows a person who knows somebody who saw "that dumbass" walk into the door divider outside Aldi Foods on Saturday. I am pretty sure I was the only one.