You heard it here first

This is from my personal blog from last night. I'm just copying it over because it's easier. You won't recognize the names of some of my friends...

How I ended up in the emergency room tonight. By Daniel Johnson, 5th Grade.

So yeah, to tell this story right means I'm going to have to embarrass myself a little. Don't judge.

I suppose this really all started about a year ago when I began looking for the perfect medallion. I was thinking, maybe a shark tooth (I like whatever Zozzy has, I think that's a shark tooth, or a urn with his relative's ashes.) Last week, I was on a hip hop blog and saw someone with a bullet at the end of their chain. "Nicely done," I thought. "How can I get one?"

So I felt pretty resourceful when I got the idea to drive up to Joe's Army Navy and see if they had any spent bullets for sale. They did. Problem was, I needed to get a hole through the bullet to affix it to my chain. At this point, high on pride in my own resourcefulness, I made a rather dubious choice to involve Ben.

A note about my friend Ben. Ben is a renaissance man. Handy. A master of many applications. BUT. Somewhat of a dreamer. Somewhat dangerous. The joke is, Ben will fix the radiator on your car but your windshield wipers will never work again. Ben will replace the heads on your tape machine, but it might blow a fuse if you actually plug it in. That kind of thing.

So I show up to Ben's last night with my bullet, and he invites me into his workshop where there has a rather robust drill. The kind of drill you mine for diamonds with. "That's funny," he says, "Are you sure this bullet has been fired? It looks unused." I told him that I specifically asked for a spent shell casing and that, in any case, I can't imagine they'd be selling live amo, especially since I explained it was going to be used for jewelry. He seemed satisfied and grabbed the bullet from me, placing it in his vice.

You might have already guessed what happens next. Ben's drill punctures the bullet, which goes off straight into the fleshy part of my thigh removing a hole of fat out of it about the size of an egg. It happened so fast that Ben and I just sat there for a good minute, stunned from the noise (louder than you'd think), and staring at my new battle wound in disbelief.

The blood was... intense. The pain... also intense. Being insurance-less, I opted to skip the ambulance treatment and with a little TLC from Ben's wife made a pathetic tourniquet with about three towels and sealed the whole thing with a garbage bag to keep from bleeding on Ben's upholstery when he taxied me to the emergency room. We laughed a little on the way to the hospital, or rather Ben did and I tried to go alone with it, but my heart wasn't in the jokes. I was angry for getting myself tagged, angry for involving Ben at all, angry at Ben's face. And honestly, it wasn't even his fault. But I blame him anyway. Him and the negative forcefield of catastrophe that surrounds him and gets innocent bystanders like me shot.

I'll be laid up for a few days from my non-job if anybody wants to bring me ice cream or hurl Molatov cocktails through my window.

I'm going to bed.