More Pain, Vicar?
The tree from which I'd suffered my epic back scraping (see previous answers) was a big, tall pear tree. A prolific one too; my childhood summers were always sweetened by the tang of rotting pears, and a mere whiff of dying fruit takes me right back.

But anyway, I was crossing the gritty concrete patio of hell when I slipped up on a slimy smashed pear. Bananas have nothing on em! That I was wearing flip-flops was no help: I gyroscoped around wildly, but gravity won. So I went over shoulder first, right into the big pile of stonky fruit my mum had swept up yesterday.

There is only one thing that can happen to a big pile of pear carcasses in a UK high summer; it was heaving - throbbing - with black and yellow fiends, feasting on the rich, rotting pear flesh. And I'd landed on top of them.

Was this the Ouch? No - as anyone with a big fruit tree can tell you, fallen fruit ferments quick - the wasps were all absolutely fucked off their faces! They were no more capable of stinging me than they were capable of flying in a straight line. I never knew wasps were evil until the tree was chopped down; there’s nothing funnier than a drunken wasp trying to fly upside-down, but sober wasps are utter homosapienphobic arses.

The ouch came when I jerked back up and stubbed my toe. Owww.
(IChewCandlewax, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 15:12, Reply)