As always, guessing correctly will win you a fabulous prize* and guessing incorrectly will be punishable by death. **
* There is no prize. That was just a joke.
** I'm probably joking here too, but why risk it by guessing wrong?
The injury this time is a dislocated ring finger, resulting in a bulky splint that makes typing this blog about as much fun as a manual colonoscopy administered by an angry Rosie O'Donnell while she is sporting a similar splint.
Okay. Now that you've got that image in your mind, let's get to the game.
Scenario #1: The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. But you know what? I didn't get involved in underground fighting to follow a bunch of rules.
It's a Friday night and I'm completely plastered. I love the adrenaline I get from street racing (I go fast AND furious) but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it sober. Unfortunately, the guy I just beat to the finish line brought a posse that would make Diddy jealous, and those Tokyo Drifters don't mess around.
As I take the deed to his souped up Prius (just because you're a street racer it doesn't mean you can't be green) one of his lackeys charges.
Before he can do anything, I deftly grab a nearby bottle of Sapporo and smash the goon over the head. I'm not sure what knocked him out first, the blunt force or the irony.
Before I can admire my handiwork, the Drifters converge on me like a school of starving piranhas. The next thing I know, I'm in an abandoned subway terminal, surrounded by a crowd of screaming madmen.
"This," the head Drifter explains with pride, "is Fight Club." I don't know why he is so proud though. Dude carries himself like he's Brad Pitt when he is clearly more of an everyman Ed Norton type. "We brought you here because your skills are impressive. Also because you have the deed to my car and it's my only way of getting to and from work."
He continues to explain that they've been holding unsanctioned fist fights down here for the past few years and that once you're invited to join fight Club, the only way to leave is to fight your way out.
"Also," he adds, "if you do happen to make it out of here alive, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write a sarcastic blog entry about tonight's events."
Before I can finish reciting the "right to peaceably assemble" in my pretentious diatribe about the first amendment, I am matched up against my first opponent, a giant hulking man named Tiny. (His mother apparently also appreciated irony.)
Tiny looks like the Incredible Hulk after he gets mad, and I know this only because he is pretty mad when I kick him in the balls and sprint for the nearest exit. Two more crotch shots to two more behemoths later (I told you I didn't do underground fighting to follow rules), and I've reached daylight.
Holding a deed to a brand new car in my hand, and with a renewed appreciation for my health, I celebrate the only way I know how...by going to the nearest dollar store and loading up on Chinese finger traps. Ten minutes and three more Sapporos later, one of the finger traps proves to be a far more worthy adversary than Tiny, and I find myself in the emergency room with a dislocated finger.
Scenario #2: I don't really want to do the reality television dating show that NBC has been pushing on me for months, but when they tell me it was "from the mind of Ashton Kutcher," how could I resist.I know trouble is coming when the executives and I immediately disagree on the name of the show. I clearly support "The Irresistible," but they insist on going with "Who Wants to Date a Guy Living in His Van?"
As it turns out, the answer to that question is "all of the people VH1 turned down for Brett Michaels' 'Rock of Love' because they weren't classy enough and/or didn't have enough teeth."
Still, I agree to do the show, so when taping comes around, I sell true romance to the camera. After nine weeks filled with lap dance competitions, romantic dialogue stolen directly from old "Dawson's Creek" scripts, and numerous trips to the free clinic for STD tests, I narrow the field down to two people I am reasonably assured are women.
The first finalist is Samantha. She's smart, funny, and has an amazing figure. She's also "The Bearded Lady" for a traveling circus and I'm just not sure if she's on the show for "the right reasons," or if she's only interested in promoting her circus' newest addition, Dumbo 2, the elephant with no legs.
The other finalist is named Tiny. She is known as the "world's largest little person." Sure, she's three feet tall and weighs over five hundred pounds, but it's what's on the inside that really matters.
At least that's what I say when the cameras are rolling. There's no better way to endear yourself to American women than by putting your heart on the line for the homely girl with the pleasant personality, only to have things fall apart off camera due to "irreconcilable (and conveniently vague) differences."
Unfortunately, when I propose to Tiny on the season finale, she thinks I'm being literal, and when the cameras turn off, it turns out her personality is considerably less than pleasant.
There's nothing quite so humbling as getting your ass kicked by an obese midget. and boy, did I get my ass kicked by an obese midget. The finger she dislocated by forcibly shoving her engagement ring on it is actually the only injury I sustained that the lawyers were able to photograph without throwing up.
Scenario #3: I am playing pick-up basketball. As I go for a rebound in traffic, my finger bends back unnaturally. It doesn't hurt much, but it is twisted in an odd direction and I can't move it. I decide to get it checked out at a nearby hospital, but not before taking poorly lit pictures of it for my blog.
So there you have it. One dislocated finger, three equally outlandish scenarios. It's your job to determine "How the Hell it Happened." Good luck; you're going to need it.
In the meantime, I'll be off working on my Plan B. This could do irreparable harm to my hand-modeling career.
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