I don’t know about the rest of you, but occasionally I have days where I act like the biggest idiot in the world. There was the day where I sent some Nigerian man a money order for $500 so that he could forward me the balance of his ex-brother’s father’s son’s parole officer’s bank account. There was the day I leaned against the freshly painted wall of a restuarant in a rented tuxedo. And there was the day I went into the women’s room at Serendipity, was told I was in the wrong bathroom, and then proceeded to walk further in, thinking the men’s room must be in there somewhere. But yesterday topped them all.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a dumb guy. I did really well on my SAT’s and currently attend UGA, which has actually become a somewhat respected academic university. I made it into the National Merit Scholarship competition with my PSAT scores (even though I was failing chemistry at the time; that was a fun conversation to have with my principal). So I have my head on my shoulders pretty well, I just sometimes forget to think. Anyway, story time:

Last week I bought a moped to get back and forth to campus more easily. I know I know, mopeds carry a bit of a reputation, but I am plenty secure enough in my masculinity to ride one. I consider it a conserative take on the motorcycle. The girls outside Starbucks a few days ago did not see it the same way though. Anyway, I got this moped but I’m not really used to it yet. I forget to turn the lights off sometimes, I take turns too sharply and jump the curb (also in front of the Starbucks girls), and I am terrified to get it over 40 mph.

But the other day I once again went outside to head over to the dining hall. The night before when I had been riding my mirrors hadn’t been adjusted quite right, and seeing as how I can barely keep the thing upright with training wheels on it, I figured I should wait and just adjust the mirrors the next day. I went outside and sat on it, playing with the mirrors until they were just perfect. Then I walked over to my car to get my helmet out of my passenger seat. (I had the helmet in the car because I like to walk around with it once i get wherever I’m going. It seems to garner a lot of respect; at least until someone asks me what my ride is.) I realized I didn’t have my car keys in my pocket and came back inside the house to my bedroom. That’s where it began.

I have a keyed lock on my bedroom door because my roommates have sketch friends who would like nothing more than to pawn my Sex and the City DVD collection for weed money. I had locked my door from the inside before I shut it and my room key was on the same ring as my car key. I tried desperately for a few minutes to break into my door with credit cards, knives, etc., but it was not happening. I finally gave up and walked around the house to break into my window.

At first I was going to use my hammer, which I then realized was in my room. Then I was going to use my Mag-Lite, which I remembered was in my car. I walked all through the house and the only thing available that was hard enough to get the job done was a golf club one of my roommate’s owns. I took it outside and looked at my window, laughing at the irony.

I had never noticed that my window is about 6 feet off the ground. And that immediately below it were the thickest thorn bushes I have ever seen. And that I had on shorts. Awesome. I grabbed a folding chair (the only thing available to stand on) and made my way through the thorns, cursing and muttering the whole time. I finally got up to the wall and opened the folding chair, placing it under my window. I stood up on it and it immediately collapsed, throwing me headfirst into the bushes around me. After whacking the bushes with the golf club I got back up and balanced myself on the folding chair.

I got up square with the window, and I was angry. I was bleeding out of places you should never be bleeding out of, and I wanted to smash the window. I took the club back, let out a great bellow, and swung with all my might. And I swear to you the window did not break. What it did do was bounce the club back and HIT ME IN THE FACE. So picture that: I’m standing out in front of my house, up on a folding chair, blood running down my legs, holding a 3 Iron and crying. Definitely a humble moment for me.

After awhile I got up the courage to try and again and eventually broke the window. I cut myself quite a bit clearing the pieces of glass, unlatching the window, and climbing inside. Once I got in my room I looked over on my nightstand. No keys. I always put my keys on my nightstand. Ok, no worries, they must be in my pants’ pocket from last night. Nope. Bed? Nope. Drawer where I keep my knitting supplies? Nope. I searched my room wall to wall and could not find them anywhere. I stood up and sighed, glancing out of the window I had just crawled through.

And there, in the ignition of my scooter, hung my keys. I could see them from the window that I had just paid my dignity to climb through. They were shimmering in the sunlight, almost as if trying to say ‘Here we are Josh! Look at us!’

You know, sometimes it just seems like life is problem after problem. One thing goes wrong, then another. And they slowly build for awhile. But my theory is that we as humans have a tolerance for that, and eventually we reach a point where none of those things matter any more. When I saw those keys hanging there I laughed for a long time. I knitted a nice little cover for my window and taped it up, then went outside and headed on my way. So if you live in Athens and see me on my scooter, just remember that I’m not very comfortable on it still, so if you honk or yell my name I’ll probably wreck.

Josh

I sincerely apologize to anyone who ever read this blog. I originally started it out of boredom, thinking nobody other than my family and a few friends would read it. In the months since I essentially abandoned it I have had people I haven’t spoken to in years, not to mention complete strangers, ask me why I stopped writing. Apparently everyone found it quite funny, and I was just starting to gain a more serious following when I quit.

I’m not sure why I did. I had more stories to tell, more hilarious encounters, but for whatever reason I just stopped writing. I can blame it on a busy semester, but truth be told I skipped plenty of class and could’ve written instead. I want to finish with “I guess I just…” but I really don’t know.

But in two weeks I am moving to Athens to start school at UGA, and in my visits so far this summer I already have good stories. Not to mention the stories I already had that I never told in the first place. So I’m going to start back writing. I won’t be updating daily. In fact I’m not going to update on any sort of regular basis whatsoever. But I will update. And I hope you’ll check back from time to time and see what I’m up to. First new story in a long time is coming soon. Stay tuned.

Josh

Hello everyone.

As you already know Parmesan Fleas has had a serious lack of posts for a little while now. Well, I’ve been quite busy with school and life and as much as I would like to put all of that on the back burner and write nonsensical articles, society dictates that this is unacceptable. However, the hiatus has taught that a lot more people read this blog than I thought, and that I must have been doing something right because I’ve gotten more than 20 emails regarding new articles.

Well rest assured that the Parm is not done and new articles are on the way. I think I may have been somewhat overzealous in trying to post daily. In doing that not only am I expending material incredibly quickly, but the articles aren’t as hilarious as they could be because I am just trying to get them posted. Thanks for all the messages and concerns though, and check back soon for a new article, only at Parmesan Fleas.

Josh

Ever since Al Gore invented the internet, people have had trouble using it. Some people can’t even turn on their computers, some can’t set up their router, and some can’t figure out why the blogosphere isn’t round. I have never had any of these problems, as things like the internet generally come pretty easily to me. Math? Not so much, but the internet, yes.

Yesterday I decided to list an item on Ebay, so I went to the site and started the process. I’ve had an Ebay account for quite some time, but I’ve never used it. I just wanted to get the name awhile ago, because new members have that little star next to their name and that little star is a blockade against trust. Nobody is going to bid $800 on some toast with the face of Jesus in it if you have that little star next to your name.

I got to the screen where I was choosing my method of payment for the posting fee, and I needed to update my credit card info. I clicked the “Edit Card” link and nothing happened. I clicked again, and nothing. I know the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results, but I mean, it’s Ebay. They couldn’t possibly have a dead link. Not Ebay.

As it turns out Ebay offers no call center because they want to make things as difficult as possible, so instead they have a “Live Support” feature where you can chat with a guide who will try and help you with your problem. I’ve always thought that these were really just smart computers that analyze your responses, but I’ve always been too scared to type anything random in to see. If you feel so bold, I would type “boobies.” If it’s a computer, it will probably just ignore it. If it’s a person, well good luck to you.

The support person, whose screen name was Ved, walked me through various steps to fix the problem. She kept trying to take me on different link paths to get to the page I needed, but everything took me back to that one dead link. Eventually I just got fed up and decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble and I would use Paypal.  I told Ved this and things got interesting.

Me:  Thanks for the help, but I think I’ll just use Paypal.

Ved: No, I should be thanking you. You have been too kind and patient.

Me: Haha, no worries. You tried to help, that’s all I can ask for.

Ved: I wish I could’ve helped you more. You seem great.

Me: Haha. Anyway, thanks again.

Ved: So what are you trying to sell?

Me: Uh, a cigar cutter.

Ved: Ooo you smoke cigars? My ex-boyfriend smoked cigars, I love them.

Me: That’s great, you should go bid on my cutter then.

Ved: Haha you’re funny too. So where do you live?

I didn’t answer this question, but instead closed the window. I have never been hit on by a (hopefully) girl on the internet, much less one from an Ebay support center, but I know it’s not something I’m comfortable with. Then again I could be wrong about the whole thing and it was still a computer. Damn crazy smart horny computers.

Josh

**In case this is your first time here, Parmesan Fleas is a humor blog, despite the following article. I have only put it up since it is seasonably applicable. If you are looking for humor, there are 20+ hilarious articles under this one, and I hope you enjoy them all. The comedy will be back fresh in just a few days. Thanks, Josh.**

For those of you that read this blog who know me well, you knew this was coming. For those of you who don’t, I look forward to hearing your opinions regarding my beliefs on Valentine’s Day. I will approach this argument carefully and with tact. I will also put this disclaimer up, as I have on every Valentine Rant prior: I realize not all people share my beliefs. If you feel differently than me, write me and say why. I can respect anyone’s opinion and perhaps your argument will be convincing enough for me to change my beliefs.

I feel that Valentine’s Day is one of the most ridiculous, overrated, heartless concepts we as humans could partake in. The idea that all people everywhere should stand up for love is a wonderful idea; this is not at all what Valentine’s Day is about. Valentine’s Day is an idea people (not just girls) use to force a display of emotion out of someone, generally a significant other. This is my first problem with it.

I am in no way a warrior against the idea of love. I think being able to share your life with someone is a beautiful thing. I recently had a situation that, while far from love, may well have been on its way there. I could not wait to see this girl and talk to her, even about the smallest of things. It didn’t matter what we were saying, it was the bond underneath, the connection that set her apart from being just one of my friends. (This situation is still being worked out; when I know if there’s another chapter or just an epilogue I’ll be sure to edit this post accordingly. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed for another chapter though.)

I hope that last paragraph shows that I do not despise love in and of itself. I despise the idea that there is one day where I am supposed to express my love in a visible way for no reason other than that everyone else is doing it. When I feel something for someone I show her whenever the mood strikes. I text her just to say hi. I bring her a box of Whoppers because we talked about how we both love them on the phone the day before. I tackle her onto the bed and jump around like an earthquake until we’re both laughing so hard we’re crying. I show up and take her out to eat and actually have a meaningful conversation, even if she is dressed in ridiculous clothes that nobody would find her beautiful in but me. I do these things not because there is a standard telling me to, but because I want to.

Valentine’s Day takes this idea and shoves it into a convenient (or inconvenient, depending on your view) package for everyone. There are some boyfriends who love it because they only have to take their girl out on this one day and she’s content. (I can’t imagine dating a girl who would actually think that way; that lack of expression is not a relationship, no matter how you slice it.) Women can mirror this as well, cooking something or wearing something special for him on this one day. (Again, I would never stay with a girl who thought that one evening of romance would make up for a year of mediocrity.) My point is, buying the card and getting the flowers and going to Red Lobster doesn’t prove in any way that you love someone. It proves you own a calendar.

I hope I haven’t offended too many hearts or lost too many readers with this post. I hope that I made my case clear, and that nobody thinks I just hate the idea of love. Love is the most beautiful thing on this Earth, and in time, I hope everyone (including myself) experiences a true love. A love that exists in the little texts, or the box of Whoppers, or the bed earthquakes. The idea that originally created Valentine’s Day is a beautiful one, but the day in itself is just no good.

Love,

Josh

If you’ve ever been to Rome, Georgia, you know that the town is almost famous for the number of cops around. Rome has the highest number of cops per capita in the state and something like the 4th highest in the country. I think they might have one assigned to watch each and every red light in town. The irony is that when you run your Mustang into a brick mailbox castle it takes one of them about 4 hours to get there, then they accuse you of speeding. Thank you Captain Obvious.

Anyway, the cops tend to congregate around Broad Street on Friday and Saturday nights, which is probably a welcome change from pulling third shift stakeout duty down at the Texaco all week long. They patrol the sidewalk and randomly ask for id’s in front of all the bars, making sure to get the full power trip. Yeah, they may have made C’s in middle school and only barely passed their G.E.D’s, but on the weekends they act as the long, dumb arm of the law.

A few weekends back I was leaving a local cigar bar with a friend of mine. The bar is 18-to-party, so it wasn’t illegal for me to be in there, but when my friend and I walked out, a cop right by the door gave me a judgmental look, almost as if to say “I hate you for having a future.” I didn’t think anything about it since it happens all the time, and Matt and I walked walked to his car and pulled out. From where he had been parked, we had to turn left onto Broad Street and go back past the bar we had left.

When Matt turned he got into the right lane, but saw that there was a police cruiser parked there and swerved over to the left to avoid hitting it. The cop who had glared at me literally flew to his car, started up the siren, and came after us. Matt pulled over and the cop took his time making his way up to the car. I’ve known Matt a long time and since he’s a pre-law student, he likes to take full advantage of his rights.

Cop: Son, just what were you doing back there?

Matt: I believe that was driving, sir.

Cop: Don’t get smart with me son. You aren’t in a position to be shooting off wisecracks. You were all over the road back there.

Matt: Well sir, I turned and when I noticed your cruiser was illegally parked in the middle of the lane I got over to avoid hitting it and getting you in trouble.

That’s right. As it turns out, if a police officer doesn’t have at least his flashers on, his car is in no way privileged from anyone else’s. So leaving his car in the middle of the lane was illegal.

The officer told us he would be back and walked off, talking on his radio. He sounded a little angry then started heading back towards our car. My guess is that he was consulting another officer about the best way to counter Matt’s argument, because he came back with gusto and a whole new angle.

Officer: Son, have you been doing any drinking tonight?

Matt: Well no sir. I’m not 21, so that would be illegal, sir.

Officer: Would you be willing to submit to a breathalyzer?

Matt: Well that depends, Officer. Does it detect crack?

The officer didn’t take too kindly to that and called for backup. We ended up sitting there for about a half hour with Matt debating with the officers as to whether he had actually broken any laws. As it turned out he hadn’t and we eventually got to go free. The rest of the night was pretty uneventful for us, but I’m sure those cops spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out if Matt had been serious about the crack comment or not. I guess that’s a secret that will remain between me, him, and the guy that sold us the crack.

Josh

If you’ve read some of my past posts you know that I am not a big fan of school. This also means that I’m not a big fan of things that go along with school, like reading and studying and whatnot. Some people may say that these things will contribute greatly to a college career; I say beer pong contributes more. After all, how many history tests will I get to take once I’m out of college: Zero. How many rounds of beer pong can I play once I’m out of college: The number is unmeasurable.

Today however, I had one history test and zero rounds of beer pong. I didn’t study for this test for the reasons stated prior, so I went in with a very limited knowledge of the material. This was made all too clear to me once I received the test and started looking over the questions. One or two of them looked vaguely familiar, but the rest may as well have been written in an idioglossia. (That’s right, I just used a word you don’t know the meaning of. But to make you feel better, I had to search the internet for about 45 minutes to find it.)

I went through the test and answered the ones I knew, leaving about 85% of the questions blank. My test looked so sad; some pages didn’t have any writing at all on them. I decided I may as well make use of the rest of my time in the class and fill in answers anyway. I quickly made a few rules for myself. 1) I had to answer as honestly as I could. 2) I had to mention Chuck Norris. 3) None of the answers could be anything a 6-year-old wouldn’t have come up with.

Question 1: (referencing a film we watched in class that I didn’t see because I skipped to play NCAA ‘08) When the general looked off from the bridge over to the shore, what did he see?

My answer: Land.

The correct answer: I don’t know, I don’t even know what film it was, so I couldn’t find the answer if I tried.

Question 2: Southern governments passed laws permitting liens in the late 19th century. These laws trapped sharecroppers in a cycle of debt and _____?

My answer: Despair.

The correct answer: preventing economic diversification away from cotton-based agriculture.

I was way off on that one. Truth be told though, I would be in despair if I was trapped in a cycle of debt.

Question 3: Please discuss the Pennsylvania anthracite coal strike of 1902, and describe Roosevelt’s response to it.

My answer: Teddy Roosevelt recruited Chuck Norris and the two of them went and mined all of the anthracite in Pennsylvania themselves.

The correct answer: Who gives a damn, how badass is my answer?! Even if that’s not what happened it should be what happened. We’d have a lot more anthracite and another great story about Chuck Norris.

Finally, my personal favorite of the day.

Question 4: Please identify Robert LaFollette.

My answer: Robert LaFollette was mentioned many times in class. We learned quite a bit about him and we were told that there would be a question about him on the test. The information about him given in our notes appeared just above Hiram Johnson’s information.

The correct answer: I’ll spare you because he was some boring old guy that did some boring old crap that nobody gives a damn about. But it didn’t involve anthracite or recruiting Chuck Norris so it’s not worth getting put on the Parm.

That’s just a sampling of the answers I turned in today. I can’t even remember them all so when I get the test back if there are more good ones I’ll update this post and put them up. I’m not really sure how my teacher is going to take it. He seems to have a pretty good sense of humor but you never know. Maybe he’ll kick me out of college and I can fulfill my dream of becoming an anthracite coal miner. Or a gigolo, I always thought that would be fun.

Josh

I love when people call me while trying to reach someone else. There’s so many different ways it could go. Some of them fall all over themselves to apologize, some just hang up the phone. Sometimes if it sounds like I hot girl I try and make a cute joke then ask them to meet me at the arcade in the mall. It never works though.

Occasionally once you get off the phone you hear that all too familiar sound of the exact same idiot dialing the exact same phone number hoping there might be someone new on the other end. They generally sound upset with you when you pick up, even though they’re the ones who decided to get pregnant at 16 and drop out of high school to smoke crack like it was their job, and thus aren’t smart enough to realize that the same 10 digits is going to send them to the same destination.

A few summers ago my phone rang, and it was a number I didn’t know but I decided to pick up anyway. The voice was eerily similar to Louis Armstrong, and he spoke slowly but quite well.

Me: Hello?

Caller: May I speak to Mr. Jones please?

Me: I’m sorry man you’ve got the wrong number. There’s no Mr. Jones here.

Caller: (hangs up)

I didn’t really think anything about this, until exactly one week later, about the same time. My phone rings again, and since a week had gone by I didn’t recognize the number. I picked up and had the same conversation with the same gentleman again. I wrote it off to him being older and possibly just not being able to see the number he was trying to dial.

A week later the same phone call occurred again. A week after that was the same. This went on for about 6 weeks until I finally got an idea. The next time the guy called I saved the number he was calling from as Mr. Jones to remind myself who was calling. I waited excitedly all week long until, without fail, Mr. Jones showed up on my caller id.

Me: Hello?

Caller: May I speak to Mr. Jones please?

Me: This is Mr. Jones.

Caller: Mr. Jones, we got the stuff. We’ll be in the Dairy Queen parking lot at 4 a.m. and we’ll have the snacks. Please bring some drinks.

Me: (too confused to speak)

I’ve heard a lot of weird things be said before. I don’t know if any of it tops this. When he first said we got the stuff, I would naturally assume drugs, and the fact that they were planning on meeting at 4 a.m. only supports this theory. However, the gentleman on the phone was going to bring snacks, and the mythical Mr. Jones was supposed to bring drinks. I’ve never been at a drug deal so I can’t say for certain, but I would imagine the crackheads generally don’t sit down and have a tea party before they chase the dragon. The oddest thing of all might be that this gentleman called me once a week for eight weeks before finally getting to speak with his Mr. Jones. Does that mean he just had crack sitting in his house for eight weeks and was too polite of a crackhead to break the engagement he had clearly already planned with Mr. Jones? God I hope so.

Josh

I’ve been acting since I was about 10 years old. I started out doing small productions at my church, and from there went on to do school shows, local playhouse productions, and even a couple of independent films. Many people, including my dad, never hesitated to point out to me that many guys who do theater are gay. Here’s my argument: I’ve put myself into a position where I’m surrounded by attractive, talented, flexible girls and none of the other guys in the room are interested in them. I say I win.

Somewhere around 2004 one of the directors I had worked with decided to put together a performance group to go on a mission trip to Peru. The idea was that we would perform an interpretive play about the life of Jesus and then a speaker would speak to the audience about the message. I’m a fan of Jesus, and I love to travel, so that plus my passion for acting had me signed up pretty quickly. Today’s post is not about the actual trip, but rather a particular incident that occurred while I was preparing to go.

You see, the area of Peru that we were going to wasn’t exactly straight out of the Bay Area. In fact, we were going to the filthiest, most disease-ridden parts of the country. Not that I was reluctant to go but I’m sure there are people that need to hear about Jesus in Italy or Australia. The preparations for going involved taking a number of pills and getting various vaccines, including the vaccine for Hepatitis A, which is transmitted through food and drink. Bear in mind, I didn’t actually intend to consume anything that didn’t say Coca-Cola or Twinkie on it, but sometimes I sing in the shower and a little water gets in. Did I go too far there? Sorry.

When I went to the doctor’s office I checked in and had to write down which vaccines I was planning on getting and that it was for my trip to Peru. I could remember that I needed the typhoid vaccine, but I couldn’t remember if I needed to get Hepatitis A or Hepatitis B. (For those who don’t know, Hepatitis B is sexually transmitted.) I decided on B because it seemed right and the nurse kept saying she needed her pen back. A few minutes later I was called back by the nurse to participate in what might be one of the most confusing conversations in history.

The nurse checked my weight and height then told me to sit so she could get my blood pressure and ask me some questions. The first few questions were relatively basic, asking if I drink or smoke. Then she asked how many sexual partners I had been with in the last year. I told her none, which was the truth, and I noticed she cut her eyes over to me as though I might be lying. I decided to just ignore it and make small talk.

For the duration of this conversation keep in mind that I am referring to the Hepatitis A vaccine while she thinks I am talking about B.

Me: So do a lot of people get the Hepatitis vaccine?

Nurse: Yeah some do, especially at your age.

Me: (confused) Yeah well I thought it would be good to have, especially since I’ll be down there so long.

Nurse: (looking startled) Umm, well it’s always good to protect yourself.

Me: Oh of course, I wouldn’t go down there without this. Who knows what I might try, you know?

Nurse: Ok I’m uncomfortable with this conversation. The doctor will be in shortly to finish giving your vaccines. (She leaves)

After a minute the doctor came in and asked what had happened. I told him I had just been discussing my trip to Peru and how I was getting the Hepatitis vaccine in case I had to eat or drink something unclean while I was down there. He laughed and told me that the nurse had not read the chart and didn’t know when I said “down there” I meant Peru. He also told me that the vaccine for food and drink was in fact Hepatitis A, but he told me this as he was pulling the needle back out of my arm.

There’s two amusing epilogues to this story. A) As it turns out, you can’t get different types of Hepatitis vaccines within 30 days of each other, so I didn’t get a chance to get the one I needed before I went to Peru. You can bet your ass I didn’t sing one note in the shower. B) The Hepatitus B vaccine is actually a 3-part vaccine, and each part has to be taken 5 months apart. So I couldn’t get past my mistake until almost a year after initially making it. On the bright side I can be as promiscuous as I want without having to worry about a thing. Except herpes.

Josh

I have always loved big family gatherings around the holidays. Everyone comes together and asks the same obvious questions year after year, yet somehow it never gets old. There’s food, fun, laughter, and ridiculous looking sweaters all around. As a kid my favorite part of Thanksgiving was always Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. I would always wish I was a rope-holder for one of the big balloons. Ok that’s a lie I secretly wished I was in one of the big balloons because I thought it would probably work very similarly to a moonbounce. I still would like to do that actually. If you are in a position to arrange for me to experience this, contact me immediately.

Anyway, after the parade was over, lunch wasn’t quite finished and there was never a whole lot to do. This would generally lead to me wandering around the house breaking things and then hiding them so my aunt wouldn’t find them until May. On one particular Thanksgiving though, I went into one of her guest rooms and found her new treadmill. A treadmill is a novel concept to a child and so I was quite curious about it.

Believe it or not I did think to find an adult to supervise me, just as the little bar on the front said, so my aunt Vanessa came in to show me how it worked. She cut the treadmill on a very slow speed and helped me get on and start walking. She explained to me all about how a treadmill helps to steadily increase your heart rate which burns calories and reduces fat. I didn’t give a damn though, I just wanted to see how fast it would go. Or better yet, how fast I would go.

I kept up for a few seconds, my slow walk turning into a desperate lunge for the front of the machine. As the motor kicked into high gear and the belt started turning, I knew I had no chance. My feet slid out from under me and I landed on my knees behind the treadmill. I actually caught myself with my hands; however, my hands landed on the belt of the treadmill, which was still running. The belt conveniently slid my hands right off the back and I tipped forward. Since I had all of my weight forward I landed right on my nose, which was then being sanded down by the evil machine.

My aunt jumped and cut the treadmill off as quickly as she could, but by then at least four seconds of face/treadmill interaction had passed. My aunt helped me into the kitchen where everyone turned and looked in horror. My nose was bleeding quite badly from the front, and I was crying like I had just seen someone murder Santa. Every time I sniffed it made my nose hurt more, which made me cry more. Eventually my mom calmed me down and cleaned me up, but the glorious scab lasted for weeks. There was no end to the booger jokes, and even today my nose looks a little shorter than it should be.

Josh