|This is how you'll look after reading this.|
What would summer be without a story full of grueling horror and blender idiocy and nut driver terror that freezes your blood and frappes it into a chunky smoothie you drink while re-reading the Encyclopaedia Britannica? NOTHING, that's what. So. Having successfully made it through the first six-plus years of his children's lives, Da-da can now safely say WHY he occasionally scores so high on the Parental Anxiety and HORROR Meter. The answer is simple, and, well... obvious to anyone within a few Astronomical Units (AUs) of Da-da's event horizon. Jeez, would you please stop hyperlinking and get on with it?
It's because Da-da himself has done so many stupid things that he's stuck in some kind of third-person auto-comment parent-blogging matrix of horror (that Word again! he said the Word!) and is convinced that his own kids are skipping down the same claymored path to Certain Doom and State College Mediocrity. NOOO! Ok, Da-da's lying. He's actually quite fabulous and has only done really only one incredibly stupid thing (excepting, of course, his first marriage at 15 to that pineapple, an ugly pineapple), a stupid thing that outranks all stupid things he's ever done... venturing perhaps into DARWIN AWARD territory, if not for the fact that Da-da survived. Strapped in? Ok, here we go.
Picture Da-da at 30, OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER. He's alone in his apartment (so, so alone). A clock ticks loudly. A nearby female mannikin with glowing red LED eyes wears a polynesian grass skirt, football shoulder pads and a marching band helmet. His huge vintage lime-green couch has salsa stains. His fridge contains only beer and mustard... yes, you see it, now... HE'S SINGLE. He also doesn't have a single gray hair. He's still thin and HOT and has most of his gray matter and memory intact (um, no kids, hello?), and as usual, he's stubbornly trying to fix something that wasn't really broken. But not just any something, an important something: SOMETHING THAT MAKES MARGARITAS. Something like this:
|Blenders can kill the cranially challenged.|
An old Waring blender, though Da-da's was from the '60s, with thicker glass, top to bottom, sitting atop a one-horsepower chrome steel base, similar to the one above. Now, Da-da noticed that the blender's blades seemed kinda loose after too many margarita grinds. This is the blade:
|Looks innocent, right?|
See that hex nut? Looks simple, right? And this is the bottom:
|Looks innocent, right?|
See how thick the glass is?
Da-da got out a screwdriver-handled nut driver with a red handle -- the kind that looks like a screwdriver, but with a box wrench hex end -- and tried to tighten the blade while holding that spinning part at the base... RRRRGG... couldn't do it. Since he was in an apartment and didn't have a proper vise (or vise grips), Genius Da-da then got an idea... a terrible, awful idea. Can you see where this train will be wrecking?
Genius Da-da placed the blender on its base, reached in with the aptly named nut driver, holds on tight and turns the blender ON, though only to LOW. The blender base hummed like angry bees and gave some resistance, but not enough. So, Genius Da-da turned the blender to HIGH.
Everything went into super slo-mo.
The nut driver immediately spun out of Da-da's hand and proceeded to spin around and around, very fast, its angle getting more and more horizontal, shearing off inch-thick glass all the way down to the base, glass flying everywhere. But the real fun came when the nut driver zoomed off the blender -- a flash of red right past Da-da's temple, grazing his cropped hair -- sticking three inches into the wall behind him, HANDLE FIRST.
A little shakey, Da-da cleaned up the mess, gave thanks for the fact that no one had seen what he'd done... and thus gave birth to all future fears regarding his children's safety, not to mention a lifelong respect for the power of one horsepower and a general fear of... THE NUT DRIVER. Waiter, Da-da will have that thorazine chaser, now... with a little Chambord.
|Oh. A thigh-handle. Yay.|