Greetings
I’ve mentioned this story more than once. I’m going through all of my files and trying to get things organized; remove duplicates, etc. I could never remember if it was my left foot or right foot, so at least we’ve been able to answer that.
I came across the foot story, and read it. I have mixed feelings on it. It demonstrates what I was capable of at the time, though I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Parts are funny, other parts fall apart. The BOSTON TEA PARTY line is a real cringer. I have a favorite line that I’ve always remembered (I’ll post it in the comments as not to ruin a punch line)
I have a TEXT version and an HTML version. I’m pasting the text version. It has hard coded line breaks, so I don’t expect it to look too good, but we’ll see.
So here it is. Its 14 years old. Vintage jay. Unedited for content.
Jays Right Foot: A documentary.
by Jay Allard
Monday morning, April 23, 1995, I was the victim of an
accident that will forever change my life... a life that I am
lucky to still possess. In this article I will walk you through
this tragedy, relay my thoughts on several aspects, and fight my
way through the more grisly details in hopes of preventing a
similar incident. I hope you, as the reader, will take the
following text to heart.
I woke up Monday morning the same way I wake up most Monday
mornings... with my feet out the window, and my head under the
rug. I am not sure how this keeps on happening, but a
superstitious person may contend that there is no reason other
than the infamous bad luck that has become synonymous with
"Monday Morning". After relaxing for several minutes as my body
built up it's desire to move, I finally got up and wiped the rug
lint off of my face. I stretched for a moment, and then
proceeded to the door. At the time, I didn't realize I was a
mere few steps from tragedy.
I flipped the light switch expecting illumination but
receiving none. A blown bulb? Perhaps. A broken light switch?
Maybe. Black out? A possibility. Destiny?... The Random House
Dictionary (Concise Edition) describes destiny as "(n) 1.
Something that is to happen to a particular person or thing." At
the time I thought it was just a blown bulb, but in retrospect I
now believe that destiny takes the credit.
In the last 8 years I have walked up and down the stairs
many times, usually without incident, so I merely hesitated in
the darkness, disregarded all concerns, and then proceeded down
stairs. With each step, the stairs creaked, slightly disturbing
the early morning silence as I steadily advanced upon the second
floor. I was about half way to my goal when the goal itself
became insignificant in comparison to my fight for survival as I
tripped over a foreign object and plunged to the bottom of the
flight amidst a haphazard combination of flips, splits, and
random limbs bouncing off the walls and floor.
I don't know how long it took for me to wake up after
impact. It probably would have been longer if not for a distant
voice beckoning me. Where was the voice coming from? Was I at
the hospital? Was a doctor or nurse holding my hand, their face
a mask of concern as they yelled, encouraging me to fight, to
hold on? Or was it beyond that... did the voice come from not
somewhere local, but from somewhere beyond the realm of Earth?
Could it have been the angels of heaven, arms open, their sweet
voices singing to me, welcoming me to the world beyond, promising
an end to all pain and misery and an afterlife of joy, serenity,
and free Pepsi? At first the words were unintelligible and
despite all my effort I couldn't tell, but then I summoned an
inner strength that all behold, but few ever use, and I fought my
way to consciousness where the words became clear. "Quiet down!
I'm trying to sleep!"
Alas, the truth became clear. I was at the bottom of the
stairs and my mother was complaining about the noise of the fall
as she tried to resume her slumber.
The details slowly came back to me as I examined my
surroundings. The second floor looked pretty much the same as it
always does, except I was seeing it at eye level. Feeling mostly
in tact, I sat up... and that's when I saw the blood gushing
freely from my right foot, creating a massive puddle. It was as
red and hideous as hell itself. It took all of my will power not
to release a stomach churning scream reminiscent of a Nightmare
on Elm Street movie... which definitely would have waken my
mother. Instead, being the trooper I am known to be, I pulled
myself to a vertical position, keeping the weight on my left
foot, and limped to the kitchen to examine the grotesque wound.
As soon as I saw the blood I accepted the fact that this was
an injury of great repercussions. I would probably have to spend
quite some time in the hospital and undergo several
reconstructive operations as distraught doctors worked to return
my foot to it's original form. Hence, I would have to take
significant time off from work which would raise much concern
among my fellow workers, and more than likely dampen their usual
high performance (except for Rick) which would, in turn, hurt the
customers.
All of this danced through my mind as I used 2 ply extra
absorbent Bounty to wipe up the blood from my foot and the floor.
As I pondered how I was going to pay the medical bills that were
sure to accumulate at record speed, the magnitude of my injury
became more obvious, and I suddenly realized that there was
enough change buried between the cushions of the couch to pay for
the two band aids that I would need to close up the wound. The
miracles of the bodies ability to heal itself continue to amaze
me. It occurred to me that it might not be as bad as I
originally conceived.
But many subjects still demanded attention. Foremost, what
did I trip on, and what cut my foot? Would the answer to both
questions be the same, or entirely different? Or maybe was the
cut on my foot just a coincidence, unrelated to the trip? With
renewed energy I stood up and limped over the scene of the
accident. At first I couldn't look... the accident was only a
few minutes earlier and painfully vivid in my memory. I realized
the recollection of me tumbling down the stairs would forever
haunt me, but I overpowered the urge to look away, and sought the
answers.
Careful not to slip on the blood at the bottom of the
stairs, I turned the corner and confronted the foreign object
which had damned me. A minor gasp escaped as I grabbed the wall
for additional strength. I stared at the object, and it stared
back... as if mocking me, knowing what it had done, relishing in
the throws of victory. And there I stood, all my weight on one
foot, the two band aids symbolizing my defeat. I don't know how
long I stood there staring into the eyes of the enemy... staring
into the eyes of a food processor, but despite the seemingly
never ending duration of time, it probably wasn't more than a few
seconds. My eye found the double blades of the food processor,
red with blood.. my blood...dripping..."drip"..."drip"... and I
could take the pressure no more! I picked up the various parts
of the processor, limped to the kitchen and threw them away. The
food processor had cut me, but somehow I took comfort knowing
that it was at the bottom of a trash barrel, and I was not.
That was a week ago. It has been a long week of healing...
both physically and emotionally. The food processor blade broke
my life into a pile of puzzle pieces, and I have spent the last
week putting them back together. Doing the frame was easy, it
always is, but filling in the middle has been far more difficult
than I expected. As I write this essay, I feel some of the
remaining few pieces falling back into place.
Many people believe that everything happens for a reason.
If someone gets hit by a speeding car, it means that it's time to
install a speed bump. If someone gets struck by lighting, it
means it's time for them to stop dancing naked on the top of a
hill in the middle of a electrical storm holding a television
antenna high over their head. If someone accidentally glues
their face to the highway and gets run over by a bus... well,
this world doesn't really need people like that anyway. The
point of all this is as follows: Earlier I said that I think the
light in the hallway was broken because of destiny. Consistent
with that theory, I now feel that I cut my foot and fell down the
stairs for a reason. The reason wasn't immediately obvious, but
yesterday as I was sitting at the kitchen table eating a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich (wishing I had some bread), it occurred
to me... The accident happened so that I can prevent other
people, such as you, from having the same accident!
The statistics are scary. The number of food processor
related foot injuries has steadily been on the rise since the
late 1700's. The first recorded incident was on a ship in Boston
Harbor. A merchant was unloading some tea, tripped on a food
processor, and fell into the ocean, bringing the tea with him.
The injury necessitated not two, but three band aids! This led
to an uprising most commonly referred to as "The Boston Tea
Party".
I recently talked Doctor Jules, an esteemed podiatrist at
Mass General Hospital. He was more than happy to offer a few
minutes of his time before he had to go attend to a priority 3
hang nail. I told him the gruesome story of my injury and my
concerns about food processor related foot injuries, and he was
more than sympathetic. He said that just twenty three years ago
he treated a young lady with a similar injury. Apparently, her
house had burned down, and as she trekked through the wreckage
the blade of a food processor pierced her sole and dug deep into
her foot. Doctors were very concerned about the injury and spent
much time contemplating a treatment. The final decision was to
use one "extra large" band aid.
Twenty three years. I hope by now you can see my point.
The first injury was in 1776. The second in 1972. The third in
1995. The duration between injuries is becoming smaller and
smaller. At this rate, the next injury should be in or about
the year 2003. That's four injuries. By the year 2500, the
numbers could be as high as 25. Looking beyond that they become
frightful. A computer simulation predicts that by the year 3119,
there is the distinct possibility that there will be up to 587
food processor related foot injuries, and by the year 99,214, the
numbers could be in the hundreds of thousands. In fact, by the
time I'm 300,000 years old, there may have been more food
processor related foot injuries, than there were lives taken by
the plague.
This is a very serious matter that I hope you consider each
and every time you use a food processor, or any other small
kitchen appliance. Take care of your food processor. If you
take care of it, it will take care of you. Always know where the
blade is, this is very important. And, whatever you do, do not
store it on the stairs.
4/30/95
