I'm surprised I kept the three-post limit yesterday. In fact, I actually wrote SIX posts, but three of them didn't make the final cut. I wasn't impressed with the quality, probably due to the pound of icy ball bearings covered in rancid snot in my stomach. Or maybe because my head felt like an ad for pancakes: Light, fluffy, and covered in syrup.
Actually, looking back at yesterday's commentary, I'm surprised it isn't terrible. I certainly felt worse than that. I guess my brain is more reliable than the rest of my body.
Someday, people will love me for my brain! At least, I hope so, because it's really my only shot.
If you're wondering, I really do have a scarred eyebrow, as depicted in the picture above.
It runs in the family. My father has an eyebrow scar, and his father before him. When I have a son, you can be sure I'll SLAM his face into the pavement and DRAG him down the street, insuring that he will continue in the grand tradition.
I got my scar "roller-blading". More accurately, "roller-skid-down-the-street-on-your-face-ing".
I think my father got his during a motorcycle accident. I can't be sure. My memories of the event are hazy because there was a head injury involved and I hadn't been born yet.
I don't know how my grandfather got his scar. I like to think it was at the same time as he lost the tip of his index finger. I don't know how that happened either, but I'm sure it involved Nazi. Or ninja. Or a Nazi ninja! With a sword!
I know the story well. Deep in the jungles of Africa, the last of his platoon, Private Perko is ambushed by a man in black. With a sweep of the villain's sword, my grandfather's pistol - and some of his trigger finger - goes flying into the murk! The sword seeks his head, but by hurling himself back into the water, he escapes harm save for a bone-deep, eye-threatening gaping MAW of a wound across his brow.
In his mind, he could hear his wife calling his name: "...
Wait, what the hell IS his first name? It certainly isn't "grandpa". It must be John. Three-quarters of the men and a third of the women in the family are named John.
Come to think of it, was he even IN World War II?
Anyhow, thinking quickly, Corporal Perko aimed his decapitated finger and fired a spurting shot of blood into the small, piggy eyes of his attacker. "Ach, du hast mein minkey!" shouted the ninja, clutching his face. Then grandpa stabbed him with HIS OWN SWORD.
Yeah. That's almost as cool as the time I was rollerblading down mount Everest to escape those international drug smugglers. I fell (I was shot in the leg!) and skidded across twenty feet of rock on my FACE, but did that phase me? Not a bit. As I spun off the cliff, my mind was clear despite the blood in my eyes. Catching hold of the helicopter skiis, I managed to pull the pilot out and take control of the chopper, using the missiles and machine guns to turn it against its owners.
Yeah. That was pretty cool. Kind of hard to work the pedals with roller blades, though.
Remind me to tell you about the twenty-one cumulative stitches I've had under my chin.