Last week, I accidentally sliced open the palm of my hand. It was one of those cuts that doesn’t start bleeding right away — a cut that pauses, like it’s just as shocked by the whole thing as you are. I looked at it and said, “OUCH! Did I cut myself? No? No? Yes? Yes. Shit.” And my body said, “Wait…what the fuckity fuck just happened? Did you — am I — well, crap. Nice one, Einstein. Aaaaaaaaaand here comes the bleeding.”
Because I am me, I thought about how incredibly funny it would be if the whole thing had gone differently and this was how I died. What if — instead of slicing open the palm of my hand — the cut was a few inches lower and had gotten my wrist? And then I bled out because I couldn’t remember where I left my phone and couldn’t call an ambulance?
Here’s how the story in the next day’s Seattle Times would have looked:
LOCAL MOTHER KILLED BY FALLING FRUIT SNACKS
She loved snacks. That’s what anyone who knew Meredith Bland would tell you. Sadly, it was that love of snacks that killed the mother of two last night in her Wedgwood home.
Officials aren’t yet sure what killed the 35-year-old, who was found bleeding out on her kitchen floor, a box of Target fruit snacks next to her. “At the moment we do not suspect foul play or suicide. We believe this was a case of incredible stupidity.” CSI investigators — speaking on the condition of anonymity — say that they think Ms. Bland tried to catch a falling box of fruit snacks, which was dislodged when she was trying to reach some crackers located directly behind them. They say that it is likely — amazing as it sounds — that in her desperate attempt to catch the box before it hit the floor, the cardboard sliced open her wrist.
“When are people going to learn,” mused one officer, “it’s just not worth it. Let the fruit snacks fall, man. Just let them fall.”
I am, in fact, terrified of death. It is my greatest fear. But more than just the fact of death, it’s the HOW of death that worries me. Given the fact that — as I have established in my on-going post series — I am an idiot, I am deeply concerned that I will die in some incredibly stupid and preventable way. I was reminded of this when I read a story about a man here in Washington state who died in Olympic National Park after being attacked by a goat.
Do you believe it?! Goats — the dogs of the barnyard — are, apparently, nothing to fuck with. Just read this article from the website “All Things Goat” (best website name ever, by the way). This makes me question the wisdom of petting zoos. Unless…UNLESS…we are playing right into goats’ hands (I mean hooves). What if this is their genius plan to kill us all?
“We’ll get them nice and comfortable, see. They’ll put us in pens with their children, all cute and friendly-like. Then, one day, when they least expect it, we will sound our war cry. From the children in the petting zoos to the hippies in the woods, we’ll butt them all to death. Then, we’ll charge the rest and eat all of their apples and footwear. MEEEEEEEEEEEEH!”
This is no joke, people. In 1991, a 77-year-old man in Georgia, named Carl Hulsey, was “butted to death” by a pet goat he had trained to act as a guard dog. Oh, the humanity. To have “butted to death by guard goat” on your death certificate. It almost doesn’t matter what else you did in your life up till that point — it fades into the background once you hear, “butted to death by guard goat.” Let me show you:
RIP Nina Smith: philanthropist, scholar, author, and activist, butted to death by guard goat named “Samson.”
Which part got your attention? That’s right. Death by fucking goat.
That’s why this whole “cutting my hand open on a box of fruit snacks” incident makes me nervous. It’s the kind of stupidity that brings me closer and closer to a goat-induced death.
So mark my words — put “Meredith Bland, ” “death,” and “goat” into your Google alerts, and then wait.