Smashed Bottles
Entry posted by Ashoka the Great
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More people need to blog about how they smashed a full bottle of expensive booze, so that i would not feel as bad.
Last weekend, emboldened by White Sambuca, I attempted a daring maneuver while riding a friend's Goped. I attempted a jump of sorts. I will not describe it, lest someone else copy it and then try to sue me for encouraging them.
By the way, did anyone know that Goped's aren't built for jumping?
Long story short....I ended up going over the handlebars and landing quite roughly on asphalt. Of course I was wearing a helmet, knee pads, elbow pads and gloves? OK, I lie. My protection consisted of a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sneakers. This might help to explain how I tore open my left knee, the back of my left hand and, in a particularly gruesome way, my right elbow.
At first I thought my face had bounced off the ground, but apparently Sambuca did not prevent me from getting my arms between my handsome visage and the pavement. My face actually bounced off my right forearm.
After running my various wounds under water to wash out the bits of gravel therein, I bandaged myself up as best I could in the absence of anything resembling a first aid kit. (Basically, I used soaked paper towel as a compress, holding it firmly on each wound -- beginning with the worst -- until the bloodflow had slowed to a trickle. This took quite some time.) Even now, nearly a week later, my right elbow continues to be a 'slow leak', as each time I bend my arm I re-open the wound. (Just try to go for a week without bending your arm. Surprisingly difficult.)
And, as I said to my wife yesterday, "My everything hurts." (For example., I can't raise my right arm more than 90 degrees without experiencing rather a lot of pain.) The missus is strangely unsympathetic with respect to my crippled state. Something about it being "your own damn fault."
Whatever that means.
So....smashed bottles? Well no, not really. But I'm pretty sure that consuming a large amount of alcohol and then concussing oneself so that one spends the next eighteen hours driving The Great Porcelain Bus qualifies as a tragic loss of expensive alcohol.
Feel better, Alfred?
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