…but not nearly fast enough. Everyone makes mistakes, like cutting themselves while chopping vegetables or something similar, but some make life-ending mistakes because they are fucking morons. Enter the Darwin Awards…
A thirty-five-year-old man from Braila was only trying to fix a broken soil tamper, a tool his father had made himself and used for decades. The metal handle of this family heirloom had rusted loose and our man was trying to weld it back into position, but unfortunately he was welding the metal rod onto an antique WWII cannon shell.
Yes, the family had been banging a cannon shell against the garden dirt for two generations!
Specialists from the Bucharest ISU (General Institute for Emergency Situations) stated that the first weld had been made in a harmless position, but the second weld was made in exactly the wrong spot. The heat triggered the shell to explode, mortally wounding the man. In his defense, he was sure the projectile was harmless because his father had used it to compact earth for almost 40 years.
If one generation doesn’t get it right, the next does.
On one of my recent vacations to Russia the bus we were traveling from Moscow was stopped at a traffic jam, most of the passengers took this opportunity to leave the bus and stretch their legs as we had been traveling for quite some time.
I however was more interested in the cause of the backup. I asked one of the law officials at the scene if he could explain the accident, and this is what he told me. One of the drivers was a scrap metal dealer; the other driver was a middle aged man who was driving a smaller car and from the look of the wreckage and the occupants criminal record was probably in a hurry. They wouldn’t disclose the names of the drivers, so we will say the future Darwin Award’s name is Ivan. Ivan’s record was a long list of road rage offenses from honking the horn to yelling various offenses out the window. From what the scrap metal dealer told them, he was driving slow as the load of refrigerators he was carrying was very unstable in the back of his pickup.
Ivan apparently wanted him to go faster so he sped up and budged the back of the pickup. And thanks to the wonderful forces of physics, the unstable fridges rocked back and forth and quickly came to rest on the driver side Ivan’s car, killing him instantly. Needless to say the world and the roads is a safer place with Ivan gone.
Pop quiz, class. Do you or don’t you go swimming in the crocodile-infested Limpopo? Do, or don’t, leave your friends on the banks of the great grey-green Olifants River (main tributary of the Limpopo) and swim in its limpid waters not once, not twice, but three times the day you are finally devoured by that old crocodile? Let’s just say it was a short New Year for Mariska B., 27, a waitress and former swimmer.
According to a long-time resident of Phalaborwa, locals know, “You don’t even put a toe in the river. It’s teeming with crocodiles and hippos.” This local, on her third refreshing dip of the day, didn’t have time to scream or struggle. Friends saw just a ripple on the water where seconds before she had been swimming.
Did I mention that swimming was strictly prohibited? Police searched for Mariska’s body with long poles, and with the chemical detectors known as sniffer dogs, but found nothing. The cycle of life continues.
In the late fall and early winter months, snow-covered mountains become infested with hunters. One ambitious pair climbed high up a mountain in search of their quarry. The trail crossed a small glacier that had crusted over. The lead hunter had to stomp a foot-hold in the snow, one step at a time, in order to cross the glacier.
Somewhere near the middle of the glacier, his next stomp hit not snow but a rock. The lead hunter lost his footing and fell. Down the crusty glacier he zipped, off the edge and out of sight.
Unable to help, his companion watched him slide away. After a while, he shouted out, “Are you OK?”
“Yes!” came the answer.
Reasoning that it was a quick way off the glacier, the second hunter plopped down and accelerated down the ice, following his friend. There, just over the edge of the glacier, was his friend…holding onto the top of a tree that barely protruded from the snow.
There were no other treetops nearby, nothing to grab, nothing but a hundred-foot drop onto the rocks below. As the second hunter shot past the first, he uttered his final epitaph: Aww shiiiit!