Last week, my sister Christina twisted one of her ankles and broke the other. As friends and family members watch her hobbling around on crutches, clubbing younger siblings with them, one question always breaks the surface.
How did it happen?
To which a far-fetched story is related, usually involving sky diving or some other high-risk activity. Most of these stories have, in fact, originated with me, but this is a minor detail. I will now reveal the full truth behind her injury. Seriously.
Ok, so she was doing motor-cross racing. One of her friends just happened to own a bunch of motorbikes and a large area of land with trails on it. It was Christina's first time riding a motorized, two-wheeled object, but she was surprisingly good, all things considered.
So, she'd was biking down a wooded trail, when she saw a badger in the underbrush. An enraged badger. It leaped though the air and sunk it's fangs into our heroine's foot. She screamed at the pain and agony of it all. The trail swerved sharply ahead. Thinking quickly, Christina held out her embadgered foot and bashed it against a tree. The angry, monochrome-colored mammal flew though the air and died upon the rock that it's brains were cruelly dashed out upon.
Later, spectators would give the badger an 8 for it's proformace, though it was unanemously agreed that it really hadn't had a fair start.
Meanwhile, Christina screeched to a halt, inches away from a conveniently placed cliff. Her foot had badger marks on it, but she was none the worse for wear. Then she saw a bungee jumping joint.
I tried to stop her, but, y'know.