You know that moment when you’re trying to reach the toilet paper but can't quite, then fall and kill yourself on a pumpkin? Yeah I know that feeling… it’s not good. It all started one very normalish day at 1065 Fitzgerald Ave.
It was all because of Mom’s lasagna. Her recipe for “Scrumptious Perfection” began with a teaspoon of salt, followed by two tons of cheese, an amount of sauce the size of the Rhode Island, and enough noodles to give you heart failure. Mom’s usually healthy, but she went overboard because- ahem, not to brag or anything- I was named El Capitan of the chess team. I was a pretty sad kid for a 7th grader. However, you would’ve thought I had just cured cancer.
“My sweetie pie! This is the day you become a man!” my Mom gushed.
Seeing as how I pretty much didn’t accomplish anything, this was as close to a party as it could get. The lasagna was great though. However, whatever food tastes good, probably has more than 500 calories. So… you know my stomach was gurgling an hour later.
I was sitting on the toilet thinking about a plastic pumpkin, not any pumpkin, but my sister’s pumpkin. She had gotten it for Christmas last year. Yes, my sister Macy asked for a pumpkin for Christmas. Some kids want puppies or video games for Christmas, but Macy wanted a pumpkin. Not just any pumpkin either, she wanted a plastic pumpkin. She was obsessed with vegetarianism (we have a weird family). Plastic pumpkins, she had thought, were much better because they lasted longer. Thus, the pumpkin was now sitting on the black and white tiled floor on the bathroom floor in front of me. At that very moment, I was examining the rather sharp plastic stem. They should really put a safety warning on this, I thought sarcastically. I wonder how far I could throw it out the window. I stood up with realization,
“Gosh darn it there's no toilet paper left.” I said aloud (because I’m the kind of guy who talks to themselves while pooping.)
“Mom!” I yelled, “where’s the toilet paper?”
“Top shelf, Honey,” she replied.
“Oh c’mon, mom! I told you not to call me that!”
“Call you what, Honey?”
“Don’t call me, Honey!”
“Okay, Honey.”
“Whatever.”
“What was that, Honey?”
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“Stupid moms always think they’re the boss it's not like she created me or anything…” I muttered under my breath.
Rather annoyed, I stepped up on the toilet rim. I could’ve used the actual stool that was 2 feet away, but when you’re butt needs TP, every move can be fatal. Unfortunately for me, that’s exactly what happened.
I reached up to the top shelf stretching my arm out. I was so close… I tried to tip the roll over the wooden lip on the edge of the tall shelf. Sadly, I couldn’t reach it. Now, instead of sensibly just grabbing the stool and using that, I just stood up on my tippy toes. My toes were clinging onto the toilet rim as I reached for the stars (toilet paper). Whelp… if you haven't already figured, this was a bad idea. My toes couldn’t stand the weight, and just as I grabbed the toilet paper, my toes buckled into the bowl and I lost my balance.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” I screamed as I fell. Crunch! Snap! I hit the edge of the counter with the force of, well a boy falling off a toilet. I felt my spine break as I hit the countertop. Horrible, piercing, agony that came in waves (which was slightly true since my feet were still in the toilet bowl). It felt like I was swimming to stay afloat in a sea of pain. I gasped and managed to flopped over.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” I screamed again, as the pain seemed to increase.
I tried to roll over to lessen the pain but fell off the marble counter. Falling into whatever was under the counter, you’ve probably guessed what it was.
Brace for impact, I stupidly thought as I fell onto something. Something orange. And round. And made of plastic. The stupid pumpkin.
“Ughhh,” Was my only reaction as I was speared in the arm by my sister’s pumpkin, because by this time I couldn’t even feel any more pain. My vision swam as I faded in and out of consciousness. ‘The pumpkin’s cartoon face seemed to say “karma!’ I tried not to close my eyes but the pain was like a rushing river threatening to take me away. Finally I collapsed from exhaustion, and the pain swept me away into unconsciousness and my world faded into darkness.
“Jake, honey,” yelled Mrs. Peterson running up the stairs “What's wrong, Honey? Why are you screaming? Are you ok, Honey?”
“Ulp…,” Mrs. Peterson managed to say.
She looked at the scene with wide eyes, as she saw Jake lying on the floor with a broken spine and blood pouring out of his arm. Mrs. Peterson clutched her chest. Jake’s mom took a very deep breath, quickly turned and slammed the door. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.
“911 What's your emergency? This is the Boise Police Department, also known as the BFD, what can we for you today.” A woman answered in a cheerful voice.
“Please send an ambulance my son has been stabbed by a pumpkin!” screamed Mrs. Peterson hysterically breaking into tears as the shock began to fade.
“Ah. Gotcha. This a real emergency, alrighty then, stay on the line. Hold on ma’am, help is on the way. I want you to calm down. Now, how was he stabbed by a pumpkin? Is this an attempted murder? And who stabbed him? Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll fine this vicious pumpkin-stabber and bring him to the court of law,” replied the operator, now determined to catch this villainous pumpkin wrongdoer.
Jake’s mother fainted on the spot.
An ambulance left the nearest station at exactly 8:22 pm, 2 minutes after Jake’s untimely demise. Police would find his limp body 30 minutes later. It was too late to save him, but it was also a very dumb death, they had agreed.