Accident Prone

My usual morning routine was turned into a fucking nightmare, and it's all Sonicare's fault!

If you don't know about Sonicare, it's a toothbrush that uses sound waves or something to make the brush vibrate. It supposedly makes your teeth cleaner, at least according to the box. But what the box doesn't tell you is that it also shatters your teeth into shards of pulpy enamel and twisted, bloody nerve endings.

Here's how it happened. I was getting ready for work and had just completed three of the necessary "S's" (Shit, Shower and Shave) and was starting on my fourth and final (Sonicare).

I think what happened was the sonic waves got juiced up by the AC/DC I was listening to on my stereo. All I know is that one second I was removing stubborn plaque to "Givin the Dog a Bone" and the next I was being tossed around as the brush jack-hammered my teeth all over my fucking bathroom.

Lucky for me my dentist was able to see me on short notice. He gave me a mouthful of temporary falsies and some good advice: Sue Sonicare for everything thing they got. He told me he gets more patients coming to him with the same story than he doesn't know what. A lot.

So beware. That brush is evil. And I will see my day in court.

Let me tell you something about The Garden Weasel. It's a dangerous weapon. And it doesn't mulch that good, either.

If you know me, you know I have a green thumb. I like to plant tomatoes and whatnot. Peppers. So I figured, why not get the Garden Weasel?

So I start mulching, right? But it's not working for shit. So I put a little more weight into it when -- Bam! The goddamn thing breaks all to hell and one of the blades pops up and cuts my right arm clean off.

The next thing I know I'm stumbling around my little garden trying to figure out where the fuck my arm went.

Do you have any idea what's that like? It's like: you know when you drop a nickel and you don't know where the hell it rolled off to? Only this was my fucking arm. Finally I spot it hanging way the hell up on a rose trellis, and I cut my good hand all to shit trying to take it down.

Then I go into my kitchen for ice cubes, because that's how they saved that one dude's johnson, and my goddamn roomate's looking at me all guilty because he just used all the ice to make a frozen margarita.

I need this on a Saturday!

To make a long story short: Into the Hefty bag goes the arm and the drink, and off I go to New York Methodist.

You'll be relieved to know that they got my arm reattached. And get this: the doctor said the alcohol from the frozen margarita probably staved off infection. So score one for Marcus.

But the makers of the Garden Weasel should expect no such happy ending. Not after my lawyer gets through with them.

Schick and Gillette are in a grim race to pack the most blades possible on a shaver, with no regard to our safety.

The result? The Quattro, which as you can see, is basically a carrot peeler that whittles away flesh with every horrible stroke. I knew four blades was dangerous. Shit, three blades was pushing it. But the commercials were so convincing. There was that animated diagram showing how the blades met the face, a thin lubricated strip moisturizing the skin as you shaved. It all seemed so logical. If three blades gave you the closest shave a man can get, what would four deliver?

I have my answer.

Don't buy the Quattro. Don't even look at it. It's a sick fucking invention, the end result of an escalating arms race by two evil companies hell bent on eliminating every God-given follicular root on our miserable faces.

Don't worry, I've already taken steps to exact my revenge on Schick. I printed a complaint form off their customer service site and plan mail it in first thing tomorrow or maybe the next day. Then we'll see whose laughing.

Thank you, Xerox. Now I have no fingers.

Happy?

All I wanted to do was copy a stupid PowerPoint chart so I could share it at a meeting. But, no. Your WorkCentre C2424 was out of ink.

I knew how to change the giant ink cartridge. What I didn't know was that the C2424 would suddenly spring to life with my hand in the goddamned thing. And I definately didn't count on the paper feed being so strong that it would pluck my fingers off and mash them into kimchi, then color copy the whole freakshow on 11x17 photo paper.

Now I have somebody else's fingers stitched onto my hand. Some pimp, they tell me. I can move them OK, but the freaking things are like two inches too long! The only plus side -- and this is a small plus -- is that I got four gold rings out of the deal. But that will hardly pay my medical bills.

I expect you to pay for that, assholes.