When I go, I want to leave people unable to sit down anymore. From laughing their asses completely off.

I’m not talking about being funny like a clown, or doing stand up comedy, or being George W. Bush’s speechwriter, or appearing in one of those classic home videos where the guy gets hit in the groin by a football.

No. I want to crack people up by winning a Darwin Award:

”The Darwin Awards salute the improvement of the human genome by honouring those
who remove themselves from it in really stupid ways.
Of necessity, this honour is generally bestowed posthumously.”

I’ve nearly bitten the dust a dozen different ways, but none of them have been all that amusing.

Well, except for this one time when I was living in London.

All English houses are infested with cockroaches. It’s a known fact.
I think it has something to do with English people smelling real bad, and cockroaches being attracted to that.
And if you get an exterminator in to spray, the roaches just go next door for a vacation and wait for the poisonous gases to dissipate before moving back in again.

I fucking hate cockroaches.

The building I was staying in at the time seemed to be full of them. I guess the fact that it was called The Cockroach Tavern should have been a give-away, looking back.

You’d turn on the light at night and there’d always be these little bastards crawling around doing cockroachey things.
And they were clever.
I think the only other time I’ve ever come across such worthy adversaries was back when I used to hunt Eskimos with a speargun.

One night, I woke from a deep sleep to find one of them trying to crawl into my ear and lay eggs in my brain. A cockroach, not an Eskimo. That would be ridiculous – Eskimos don’t lay eggs. D’uh.

Anyway, I did a little girly shriek, flicked on the light and slapped it off my face. It scuttled away.

Enraged, I pursued it with one of my giant-sized steel-cap Dr Martins boots, smashing holes in the wall and floor boards, as I tracked it through the flat.

Then I had it – it was on the fridge door. Black on white, an easy target.
I smacked it hard with my fist.

Some time later, I regained consciousness. There was a massive lump on my head.

Apparently, my Ninja Death Punch had dislodged one of those monster bottles of Jack Daniels that lived on top of the fridge, which, you guessed it, came crashing down on me. Followed by whatever the fuck else was sitting on top of the fridge at the time.

D-Missus was worried sick.
She thought I’d killed myself, and was freaking out that she was going to have to call the emergency services and explain to them that I’d died while hunting cockroaches in the nude.
And that, she said, would have been an embarrassment she simply could never recover from.
Cheers honey.

Anyway, I did not die from the massive brain injury endured whilst hunting cockroaches in the nude. Apparently, I have a thick skull, or something.

But the worst thing? It turns out I didn’t even kill the cunning cockroach. In fact, I didn’t even hit it. I’d missed it all together and it lived to tell the amusing little tale of how the D-Man had fallen for the old JDs-bottle-on-fridge trick.

But at least the bottle of JDs was OK.

Thank God for small mercies.

DISCLAIMER: D-Man Bites Dog would like to make it clear that it does not support wiper-blade removal of the alleged offending vehicle or the demolition of the alleged offending driver’s letterbox.

But D-Man Bites Dog acknowledges that Cyberspace is full of crazy stalker psycho types and that this may be an unexpected and unfortunate outcome of this decision.

If D-Man Bites Dog was legally allowed to offer an opinion of said theorized outcome, it would issue a press release, saying: Good. Fucking. Job.

But, being a responsible blogsite, D-Man Bites Dog reiterates: DO not SUMMON DARK SPIRITS ON THE D-MAN’S BEHALF.

Anyway:

To the driver of the 64-mother-fucking-tonne container truck, licence plate B325P, that almost killed me in east Auckland at 5pm on Friday by pulling out on me, then proceeding to practically ram me into the curb and off the road all together …you know, you were the cuzzie-bro with the wrap-around shades, talking on a CB radio, and ignoring my request to pull over and explain yourself -- Right Here, Buddy:

What the hell were you thinking?

Look twice for bikes. Wanker.

I’ve discovered that telling a South African co-worker that I didn’t see the weekend’s Big Rugby Game, “but I did tape it, although I haven’t had a chance to watch it yet, so don’t tell me the score, thanks”, is an excellent way of stopping the prick from rubbing in the fact that his team beat the All Blacks 22-16.

Bastards.