Flaming airplanes and other entertaining tales of pain.

So I am sitting here avoiding the two credit card bills that I forgot to pay this month. As I was looking at them all folded neatly, I couldn't help but reach out and fold one in the shape of an airplane. Okay kids, pull up a chair, fold your bills into airplanes, and don't stop me if you've heard his one.

As a child my mother use to leave me in the less than capable hands of my two older brothers. I still bare scars from many of these misadventures, but the one story that sticks out the most, probably because a good friend of mine use to make me tell it everytime I met one of her friends, was the airplane story, scratch that, the flaming airplane story. You see, my brothers were nothing short of the modern day redneck Macgyvers of their time. A bit of gum, or a length of string became deady weapons as far as I was concerned. Now on this particular day they had chosen to have a friend over, bless him, his name was Walter, as dumb as he was goofy looking. He always managed to break something at our house, so he wasn't suppose to be there. I took it upon myself to enforce this rule in my mothers absents. Apparently I was being a little too bratty that day because the wrath of the three half wits fell on me. First my brothers started throwing paper planes at me, mildly dangerous, not life threatening. Then they started getting crafty, taping up the nose and tail so it would fly faster and hit harder, still no life threat. Then thanks to a flicker of brain control and a roll of duct tape, some small push pins and a lighter... the next damn thing I know I have flaming missiles coming at me in our livingroom. The rest is like a scene from one of those old black and white war films, go with me on the melodrama here. Picture me, just 20 years younger, running away in slow motion just as a flaming airplane, complete with push pin nose piece sticks in my back. I run faster, the flames grow. I stop drop and roll, impaling myself on the push pin. The singed kitchen curtains and charred paper were the only remains of that days battle. I licked my wounds, limped away, and buried those assholes bicycles in the backyard. There really should be a purple heart for growing up .