The 7 Dumbest Things I’ve Ever Done & A Few I’m Likely To Repeat


This Farce Is Edited For Brevity And Believability

Delivered with mortal fear of paying Divine Restitution for rarely using my brain and common sense to get me this far along …

Its a small mercy there’s a Statute of Limitations on prosecuting stupidity.

Wait, what?

So, when exactly did it expire?

Okay, scratch that idea …


Let’s Segue With A Disclaimer.

Consider this:

“I Wasn’t Born Dumb; However, I Confess To Being A Lapsed Simpleton And A Proven Moron With Idiotic Tendencies Enabled By Stupid Behavior And An Abundance Of Imbecilic DNA.”

You know it.

While I was a marginal athlete at the loftiest of my delusions and played a bunch of sports and participated in extracurricular activities during elementary and high school …

My true adolescent passion was the Pursuit of Grassroots Stupidity.

I grew – devolved – quite effortlessly to a more heightened level of brazen idiocy.

I picked up the habit again throughout my adult years just to prove how much fun it was being a kid.


Judge Away … 

Here goes:


Not Just Any High-Speed Portable Fan.


I went first knuckle deep …

Into one of those monolithic, steel-bodied floor fans with 8 turbo props spinning at 9,500 RPM.

“I suspect the behemoth turbine was pilfered from an abandoned Air Boat on the Florida Everglades, once used to go Gator Baitin’ and Honky Tonkin’ on the Redneck Rivera.”

I was about six.

It was unbearably hot outside making it brutally hotter inside.

Air Conditioning was not yet invented a non-reality in my little dump of a world.

Unsupervised and bored just enough to try my luck.

Did it hurt?

Yeah, it did.

And, it bled like a fornicator of momma’s

Dumber yet, I’m still tempted to put my finger back in a fan every time I pass one spinning away.

What’s wrong with me?

Don’t answer.


Obviously, I Didn’t Watch A Lot Of Science Shows Or Read Warning Labels.

While under the age of 7.

Because …


We didn’t have a television.  No, we didn’t.  Until I was I can’t remember how old, but I do recall all three channels we watched on a Black & White fuzz box with pretzeled rabbit-ears for antenna.

Boo-Freaking-Hoo … Slow Clap It Out … 

For This Unnecessary Digression About Dead Beat Dads:

“Bravo, Papa Mortedella …  Oh, Please Don’t Do Us Any Favors, Or The Courtesy Of A Once In A Lifetime Reach-Around To Lay Down A Few Lira’s To Support Your Bastardo Bambino And His Mama … Grazie Mille!”


Parental Supervision in my home wasn’t really a thing back then.

You know, kids should raise themselves the best they can with what they’ve got, right?


And, neither was Common Sense.

So, I fried out a socket.

And, caused the lights on the Eastern Seaboard of North America to flicker.

Scorched my thumb and forefinger on my right hand.

Yes, it hurt.

Appreciably more than the time I held an exploding Cherry Bomb Firecracker between same thumb and forefinger, which only qualifies for Honorable Mention on this list.

Elevating the Magic Number To Three of deliberate and nearly fatalistic brushes with dismembering the trifecta of appendages on my starboard side of prime dexterity.


I Have Proof That Pumpkins Don’t Burn.

I can’t say the same for flaming Jack-O-‘Lanterns.

And, more precisely, the fire-retardant characteristics of cheap, old mattresses.

Aged 6 or 7.

“Inarguably, Not My Finest 12 Months In Developing An Alleged Intellect.”

Hallowe’en, it is.

On a crisp Saturday afternoon in Autumn.

I’m in possession of a miniature pumpkin the size of a cantaloupe, its orangey innards carved out and set aside by either my mother or one of my sisters, with a promise to roast its seeds as a treat later.

A crunchy, salty little treat that would never touch my lips.

I’m unattended – for the moment, but long enough – to find a candle conveniently sitting next to a box of matches by the gas stove.


The shit-hole Cozy Love Nest of a one-bedroom apartment inhabited by “Just The Five of Happy Smiley-Faced Bunnies” is bright.

By bright, I don’t mean cheery.

I mean, there’s no drapes to cover the windows that I recall …

So, Las Cucarachas – My Precious Little Blattodea Homeys – have no place to hide, and graze openly and defiantly like lion-tempting arrogant Gazelles of the Serengeti.

… At least, nothing more than veil-thin bedsheets with the translucency of Saran wrap, which I suppose to be fair, really isn’t necessary when you live on a main thoroughfare of a major city with equally poor bastards for nosey neighbors gawking back at you.

Plus, I forget there is a closet.

Or, the closet is the bedroom, and we’re all living in a bachelor flat meant for a single person.

As a pint-sized opportunist with a magnificent eye for grandiose possibilities and theatrical expression, I soon realize the under carriage of my (shared) bed is dark enough for what I have planned.

The bed was old, but surely deserving of a kinder fate.

A piece of rackety crap, long depleted of its singular purpose, disposed of by the local Sally Ann branch. 

The box spring – a decrepit contraption of twisted pine splines and sheer muslin hanging loosely from its drooping underbelly – was the specimen of choice under deep scrutiny.

More flammable than gasoline.

Who knew?

I found out.

I didn’t even get the candle lit.

The bed, yes, it did … ignite … rather brilliantly!

The muslin went up in a Great Apocalyptic Fire Ball.

After I flattened my gut and slithered under the bed, struck the match …

And, there is was.

A Fiery Mushroom Plume.

It was scary and cool.

And, not worth the smack to my chops heard round the neighborhood.

I wouldn’t claim to have a primordial fascination with pyromania, but I will say:

“I’m first to sprint out of a lawn chair to throw a bushel of split logs and douse a jug of kerosene on the bonfire when camping.”


No Worse Match Made When Four Perfectly Pretty Fingers … 

Receive the Business End Of A Door Slammed On Self … By Self.

Yes, this happened.

In a Seven-Eleven parking lot in August 1983.

Compliments of a bewildering display of contortionist dexterity and unadulterated idiocy of the surrealist disorder …

I’m in my car – The Sexy Beast of a 1973 Oldsmobile Omega – regaled in vinyl-clad light blue bench seats, snow tires (In The Summer In Florida … Again, Only An Honorable Mention, Here) …

… Nursing a just bought sixer of something cheap and cheerful …

Editor’s Note of Unnecessary Digression About Beer On A Student Budget:

“Let’s go with Pabst Blue Ribbon for rich dramatic effect and to appease our Hipster Dinks, but it was probably Meister Brau or Old Milwaukee to be period correct, and also, the writer is a cheap asshole.”

So, I’ve got my left arm perched up high and accompanying left hand gripping the underside of the roof in the crevice of the door cavity shrouded by the thin rubber weather stripping …

… While channeling my inner Einstein, I pulled and slammed shut – hard and swiftly as I’m able – the driver’s door, with my right arm cantilevered across my torso.

The Sunday morning Daytona Beach News-Journal headline read:

“Idiot man’s right arm slams car door on his left fingers.”

It hurt.


This is what I learned after refusing to heed cautionary advice (during a summer trip to Virginia and the Carolinas in 1990) … 

About sharing accommodations with Sand Fleas in their natural habitat:

“The Sand Flea, also called Chigger, Jigger Flea, Chigoe Flea … has a wingless body and burrows and lives in the sand … love attacking bare-footed morons and burrow deep into the soft skin.  This, of course, leads to severe inflammation and ulceration, as well as secondary infections …”

These bites are painful and can cause a lot of suffering for months.

As a bonus, these little f@ckers can carry diseases and transmit viruses.

So, there.


Of The Infinite Possibilities And Permutations of Stupid Thoughts Cross-Pollinating With Equally Stupid Actions

Using a utility knife with its so-called ‘Safety Blade’ extended beyond its recommended maximum extraction length, is a study in witnessing the unknowable depths of my idiocy first hand:

“As the self-anointed ignorant perpetrator morphs into the mindless victim.”

Its not like I consciously decided to break the blade while cutting plastic strapping on a box, or encouraged the broken razor-sharp tip of the same blade to ricochet in lightning fast, upward trajectory to wedge precisely in the corner of my eye socket.

But, sure, that’s exactly what happened …

When you shrug off common sense and engage in superior dismissiveness in heeding warning labels.

Off to Emergency I went.

Fun times.

Lucky day.

Thank you, God.



It’s best re-told in its full glory here:

My Sexual Orientation Needs No Explanation …


Like This One Time … 

I made fun of a rookie cop’s ungrowable mustache while being pulled over during the last week of Movember. 

For clarity, it involved a speeding ticket that I beat in traffic court because Constable Pee-Wee was … doodling – yes – doodling … on his police-issued ticket pad.

Drawing Happy Faces with Pancho Villa mustaches.

Epic Win, Kuch.

Or, when I hydroplaned The Sexy Beast into a fishtail-err-donut on a four lane highway driving just slightly over the speed limit in a torrential downpour.

And, almost drowning twice, because of course, cheating fate the same way twenty years apart is always a Feel Good Story for The Ages of Idiocy.


I’m working on it.

With my crackerjack research into prevailing Customs and Traditions in Thailand, I’ll now be making a couple of changes to my future itinerary and plans before I get there.

On my short list was to Ride An Elephant and Hang Out With A Monk.

Evidently, I won’t be doing either.

Courtesy of http://www.phuket101.netThings Not To Do In Phuket:

“What was considered a casual entertainment a few years ago is slowly changing and riding an elephant is now considered animal cruelty.  Elephants are respected intelligent animals and riding them create a lot of stress.  Fortunately, the new trend is to visit a sanctuary or rehabilitation camp – Elephant Jungle Sanctuary – feed the elephants and even play in the water and mud!

So, frolicking with my Phuket Pachyderm Pals it is.

I’ve always looked upon Buddhist Monks as All-Knowing, Mystical, Spiritually Hip Beatniks.

I dig their cool, aloof demeanor and discipline.

Again, from our friends at Phuket 101:

“You should not touch a monk… it may sound strange but that is the way it has always been so if you see a monk in the street, always give way.  Monks are very respected and people step aside, and so should you.”

Okay, fair enough.

Obviously, I wasn’t planning on playing Twister at The Temple.

Or, frolicking on the mats together.

I’ll just wait until I visit the Dalai Lama in Himachal Pradesh.

Be Smart.

Be Safe.

Be Not Stupid.


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