Welcome to Blood Week. We put out the call on Friday for your tales of of blood, violence, gruesome injuries, near-death experiences, mayhem, and blood. Many of you came through with submissions, which we'll be posting throughout the week. If you have a story and/or photos to share, email email@example.com, with Blood Week in the subject line.
Poor Manuel has an unfortunate story of simply living at the wrong place at the wrong time, and waking up to a most unpleasant surprise:
In the summer of 2008, some guy let himself into my backyard, walked up the two flights of steps on my deck, then fell off and landed on the sidewalk. His story was he was at a nearby bar and remembers nothing else, but he didn't have wallet, cell phone, etc and assumed he was roofied and robbed.
The Chicago police bang on my back door and ask me 'do i know this guy?' while he's laying in a big pool of blood on my grass. He landed on cement and dragged himself onto
the grass where a neighbor walking his dogs heard his cries of anguish. I had the A/C on
and heard nothing.
There was blood on everything! Cement, grass, it started pooling down the stairs
to my basement door. It splattered on the wooded fence and even the garage wall 20 feet away! To this day i find specks of purple under my porch.
This guy managed to break his arm and leg on the side he landed and had huge
gashes and scrapes on the side of his head that looked like it ripped away part of his hair.
After he got carted away and the police concluded i didn't push him off and he
just wandered in, i was told i had to clean up the mess, not them. I wore old sweat pants,
long sleeve shirt, old winter gloves, goggles and my winter face-mask and had to
fight swarms of flies as i wiped up liquid and congealed blood. Bleaching cement was easy. As for blood pools on my grass and dirt, i just dug them up and bagged it with my clothes when i finished and threw them all away. My clothes were also covered in blood and congealed skin from trying to clean it with a garden hose.
Roger and his band shot a video. It ended with Roger's face bleeding. You can see how for yourself below, and read about it right here:
My band shot a music video where we're wearing hockey pads and football helmets and stuff as armor and our friends threw various trash (little tikes cars, skateboards, records) at us.
We did two more takes after the one that cracked my face open and the cut had basically clotted so I figured it was okay. Walking home from the shoot, I decided to go to a liquor store to get some wine so I can wind down before bed. When the guy at the door checked my ID I realized that my hand was still covered with blood. Fortunately he didn't seem so concerned as to deny me entrance into the store.
The night before I was talking to my friend and i said "i just really hope that no one gets hurt while shooting this" and he said "wouldn't it be more worthwhile if someone did?"
Yeah so I guess it's not that funny after all, but blood right?
Southey had an especially rough time playing backyard football when he was in the second grade. Somehow, an innocent, one-on-one game involving him and another kid turned into this:
So this story involved me losing a few pints of blood, from my mouth, almost having my tongue removed from my head by a tree limb, all while playing backyard football when I was in 2nd Grade.
When I was in 2nd grade I had one best friend, Oliver. He lived on the same street as me in the backwoods of NC and so when we wanted to play sports basketball was fine, just 1on1. But moving to any other sport was a pain in the ass so that backyard football games became sad affairs where essentially we would just throw the ball to the other person and try to tackle them as if they were returning a punt. If you got tackled then you got up, snapped the ball to yourself and either ran around trying to shake the other person off, or you attempted to throw it hail mary style and run under it and catch it in the endzone. Needless to say these games were sad as hell.
One day while playing my little sister who at the time unbeknownst to us had tied a jump rope to a large tree limb on a tree which hung over the edge of our yard. As I returned a punt/pass and ran up the sideline she pulled the jump rope at the exact perfect time so that the pointy, jagged end of the limb rocketed into my mouth, stabbing me in the back of the mouth, and lacerating my tongue. At first I was stunned, unaware of what the fuck just happened, it felt like someone had slapped me in the mouth, then the blood, oh good sweet lord the blood. Have you ever had blood fill your mouth instantaneously? All I could remember thinking was holy shit I'm dying, she hit an artery, and I'm going to bleed to death from the mouth on the field of a sad ass 1on1 football game. I ran to the house while Oliver and Anna stood stunned in the yard, unable to move. My mother heard me scream, came out, and without blinking said, "Get in the car." In 2 seconds she had shoved a washrag in my mouth, told me not to move or talk, and we drove 90mph to the hospital.
At the hospital I was told that my tongue was severly lacerated, it was 3/4's of the way cut out of my mouth, but they could save it. So they numbed my entire mouth. Took out bits and pieces of tree branch, then while my tongue was still numb, MADE ME HOLD MY TONGUE IN PLACE WITH MY FINGERS WHILE THEY SEWED IT BACK INTO MY MOUTH. So I sat there holding what felt like a disgusting piece of sandwich meat while someone sewed it into my face. I can't even remember how many stitches I received in the end.
Although my tongue is in perfect working order to this day, sometimes the tip of it will go completely numb due to nerve damage, and also I got to eat nothing but ice cream for almost 3 months after that, which was fucking AWESOME.
Then there's poor Gordon, whose awful rugby story is guaranteed to make any man reading it wince with discomfort:
I hope you get plenty of rugby stories...here's mine. Playing for UCLA in the mid-80s, I found myself as the last defender between the goal line and one very large, very angry Samoan. Rather than doing what I should have done, which is to pee in my pants, clutch my hamstring and flop to the ground, I decided to tackle him.
He lowered his head as he bulled over me (providentially tripping over my prostrate form) and I crashed to the ground, consumed with an explosive pain and clutching my groin. I rolled around on the ground, eyes screwed shut, moaning and cupping my junk. Once I got to my knees, I looked over and saw my mother on the sidelines, pale as a ghost. Hoping to reassure her wish for grandchildren, I pulled open my shorts, and almost passed out, this time out of shock, not pain.
The Samoan's giant head had hit my penis with such force that I had shot a rope of blood into my tighty whities. It looked just like a money shot, but a bright and sickening red.
Postscript: The pain went away pretty quickly, I finished the game, and now have two sons. But I did not get laid that night...