FML's Harrowing Halloween
I was a teenage werewolf. No, not really, I was a teenage twit with acne and a bad haircut, but I’m guessing being a teenage werewolf was a bit more fun than my own ghastly condition. It certainly seems so, judging on the goings-on in the classic movie of that name. Anyway, as you may or may not know according to much you enjoy dressing up as a bat or a slutty gravedigger, it’s Halloween. In celebration of the agoraphobic pedophile’s favourite day, here at FML we’ve got an endless list of horror movies, scary situations and monsters that strike fear and unwanted urine ejection in even the most calm and collected person.
Today, I was called to a house for a devil possession. I wound up getting covered in a young girl’s pea-green vomit and told that my mother is sucking cocks in hell. I need a new career. FML
Sent in by Father Karras
OK, I made that one up, sort of. This is from ‘The Exorcist’, the classic horror movie from the 70s. What could be more of an FML than being on the business end of a hissy fit from the Devil himself, set to Mike Oldfield’s wonderful ‘Tubular Bells'?
I already wrote an article about Halloween last year, with many examples of FMLs (click here to read it if you haven’t already), so I’m not going to do that again. Besides, I’m a bit frightened of Halloween. Well, not exactly frightened, more suspicious. I’m not saying I’ve become superstitious or anything, but last year’s Halloween was pretty rubbish for me. After I’d posted the article, I went out to a Halloween-themed party in a nice English pub in the south of France. I hadn’t worn a costume because I look pretty strange on the best of days so I was counting on my natural features being odd enough to let me off the hook with regards to the mandatory scary costume. The pub was decked out in all the classic Halloween trimmings and looked great; the staff were all in full costume and it’s owned by two of the most charming landladies ever so they all looked great, and the turn out was pretty impressive. I met up with my friends, and all was OK. Unfortunately for me, the night was about to turn a bit sour. Or should I say “bitter”, because beer then started flowing freely down my gullet as I tried to wash away the pain of being a sad sack single man who lives with two domineering cats. Everything was going fine up until closing time, and I got back to my place. Now, I know that drinking booze is not big, and it’s not clever, but I enjoy it so sue me. No, don’t sue me, please, I'm poor.
Walking home, the streets were spinning around and I managed to push my sleeping cats out of the way and crawl into bed, alone again, naturally. Flashback to a couple of years before: I’d had surgery done to my nose due to a deviated septum, and one of the drawbacks of this procedure meant that I got a load of nosebleeds afterwards, which required me going back to hospital to get it fixed again and again. Back to present day: I fall asleep in my inebriated state only to wake up in the middle of the night with a nosebleed. I start to panic, thinking, due to my booze intake, that I’d have to go back to hospital to get it patched up, so I rush into the bathroom. For some reason, I decide to put my nose over the bathtub to avoid getting blood everywhere, and in my haste I hoist one foot over the side of the tub a bit too quickly. I slip, due having missed the bottom of the tub, my ankle goes "crack", I go crashing into the wall, smashing my nose in the process, then fall backwards onto the sink, hitting the floor like a sack of drunken potatoes. I decide to call it a night, and crawl into bed.
The next morning, my right ankle was killing me. I hobble about, crashing into the walls and doorframes, avoiding the cats who are typically terrified of anything out of the ordinary, so they’re hissing at me while I’m swearing at myself. Thinking I’d sprained it, I start calling doctors, but the 1st of November is a holiday in France, so nobody is available. I manage to get hold of a friend who takes me to hospital: one X-ray later, I’m told that I have broken my ankle and need to have an operation to get it fixed. The next morning, they knock me out and put metal parts into my bones to hold it together, telling me that I have to stay on crutches for a month and a half. The upside is I get to take some morphine home with me, but a limited supply and I’m in pain and very embarrassed about the whole thing. Remember, this happened on Halloween night. Was I cursed? Had I been staring at a witch’s cleavage for too long in the pub and she put a spell on me? Or was it just my fault for drinking beer? In any case, I spent 45 days in discomfort, hobbling about my apartment, having food delivered to me and having to get injections every day to avoid bedsores.
It made me realise that living alone can get pretty depressing if you can’t get about, stand up to cook meth or even go out to buy a newspaper. I won’t start getting all philosophical about the meaninglessness of life, love and how fragile we all are when faced with a slippery surface, I’ll just say to everyone to be careful when getting into a bathtub on Halloween. Oh, and extra bang to my FML here is that since I was an idiot and told everyone I know about what happened, now I can't get away from jokes about bathtubs. I'm a bathroom health hazard. I'm constantly reminded that I fell over and broke my ankle due to a bloody nose and a tub.
That is all. Now go out and enjoy yourselves, it’s later than you think. This year, I'm spending Halloween dressed as the invisible man. As in, I'm not going to any parties or any social gatherings where the curse could strike again. Bring me some chocolate back; I’m staying home tonight to avoid spells, further injuries and humiliation.