Needles and Blades.
When I was 12, a wee nipper by all accounts except in appearance - I have always been rather tall for my age - I was stabbed in the inner thigh by a crackhead with a butterfly knife.

I had argued with my mother over something trivial yet important to a 12 year old, probably about whether or not I could use my pocket money to buy a N64 or something equally awesome.

My mother had disagreed with my grand plans for the future and had told me as such. No N64, my grades were bad enough as it was without the further distractions of Super Smash Bros and Goldeneye destroying my study time.

Obviously, this is not what 12-year old me wanted to hear. I had yet to learn the sinister methods of manipulation and smooth talking that I would later use to talk my way into and out of bad situations like a greased vibrator made of butter.

But I digress.

I stormed of in a sulk, in the manner of a sulking 12 year old, and wandered aimlessly around the train station for a while, muttering under my breath at the injustice of not getting an N64 with the money that I myself had earned.

It was then that I heard a strange noise from behind me.

"HUUURRRRRAAWWLLLLGUUUHRAGAGAGAGAGAGARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

It sounded as if a midget was getting a severe hairy German manrape lesson with an elephant, or another suitably large animal.

I turned around. This was to be my undoing, for as soon as I saw the man, dressed in a shabby collection of rags and smelling strongly of piss and old tea bags boiled in shit, he saw me.

His wide, unfocused, bloodshot eyes locked onto mine through his thick mane of greasy hair.

"NYAAAAAAAAAARGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG!"
He exclaimed, breaking into a sprint.

I stood there, terrified, as 12 year olds often do when confronted by a raving lunatic in a subway station. This was a mistake.

The man crashed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs and filling my nostrils with his horrid stench, before jumping to his feet and running away, screaming at the ceiling.

"NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHRAAAGGAAAWWAWAWAWAWAWWAAAAAAAGH!"

When I tried to get up, there was pain. Lots of it. So I looked down.

The handle of a balisong protruded, almost phallic, from my left inner thigh. The blade had been sunk right in to the hilt, and there was a very, very worring amount of very, very bright red blood seeping into my jeans.

"OH FUCK!" I did exclaim.

And so it transpired that I was rushed to a hospital, whereupon I was put on a gurney with a hastily made dressing keeping my femoral artery and gashed scrotum from painting the walls in festive lashings of crimson as I was prepped for surgery.

And joy, my surgeon was a chatterbox.

"You're very lucky, Mr. Lite, the blade missed your testicles and the gash in your scrotum isn't that deep - it's mainly superficial. The stab wound is quite deep though, so we're going to have to give you a general anesthetic before we operate."

Oh, fucking JOY. Thank you for that, but it still hurts like a bastard and I would like some powerful painkillers and/or anesthetic as I have been screaming, delirious in agony, for the last 15 minutes, you loudmouthed cunt.

And then, to compound matters, I had to go and get the scar tissue removed a full 7 years later as they were starting to pull. It's a bit of a woo/fail when your moanmaker is still growing at the age of 19, but is then in agony as the scar along the left side of your scrotum fails to keep up and has to be removed.

Under a local anesthetic.

So, trypanophobia and aichmophobia. What a lovely set of psychological disorders I have.

Apologies for length, the blade was 4 inches long, which pales in comparison to my continuously growing tool.
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 4:30, 4 replies)

But did you get your N64 as "compensation/guilt pressie"
(mr dread, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 7:05, closed)

I spotted a paradox...
You had a gash in your scrotum!

Seriously though, huge waves of sympathy in your direction - I can only imagine the agony.

May I suggest that us b3tans club together to buy you the N64?
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 10:09, closed)

Ah, it's ok
I got the N64 in the end.

Playing Goldeneye multiplayer made up slightly for the incredible agony - especially as I kept re-opening the wound on my sack every bloody morning.

Morning glory is not glorious when it makes you cry and soak the sheets with blood.
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 10:31, closed)

what happened
to the tramp? did he get locked up?
(Katzilla Follow Me! @Kat_Zilla (I don't promise funnehs), Fri 11 Apr 2008, 15:13, closed)