Dare Me?The 5th Metatarsal of Hell
By Sarah Buckley
When I signed up for this whole “Dare” thing, I had a few simple expectations. One was that I would get through each week with my bones still intact. That didn’t pan out so well. (I couldn’t even be a schoolgirl-cat-fairy for Halloween like I wanted to! No, I had to go as Gimpy McBroke-Foot, which is not nearly as sexy and hurts a lot more.)
But before I tell you the story, I’d like to commend those of you who were brave enough to send in dares. Most of them were, sadly, summarily dismissed due to a preponderance of suckality, but there were a few good ones that you can look forward to. Three different people wrote in suggesting that I start my own religion and apply for a tax-exempt status, a la Scientology.
Apparently, these people think that the details of U.S. tax law make for good reading. Interesting, or so boring you’d rather chew your own eyes off to avoid reading about it? You be the judge. And to the guy who dared me to drink a gallon of bleach: who let you off the short bus? No, really, tell me; tell me so I can hunt him down and sew his ass to his face.
That said, here’s some background on today’s adventure. Most of the freshmen in my dorm have developed a healthy fear of and respect for me and attempt to placate Don Sarah with free pasta. I was, therefore, rather surprised when one freshman had the audacity to call out to me in the hall, “Hey idiot!” I turned, and he continued, “I dare you to block traffic in a busy intersection by holding up an ‘I love Bush’ poster.”
First I bitch-slapped him to let him know his place in the dorm hierarchy (oh, and also I had him whacked, just in case). Then I got to thinking — this could be a scientific experiment (scientific in the Poli Sci sense of the word). What if I pulled this stunt in several intersections around the Boston area? I could scientifically determine which intersection is the most heavily Democrat by gauging the anger level in response to my actions.
But somehow, that didn’t seem like enough of a challenge. I feel I owe it to you guys to provide you with something a little more interesting. Thus, I decided to perform the same experiment a second time using an “I love bananas” poster. Then, using the “intersections that hated bananas” metric in combination with the “intersections that hated Bush” metric I could (and this is the clincher) make an overarching conclusion about Democrats and banana love. Brilliant!
I selected my first location as the Mass. Ave. at Main Street intersection. Things were going well from the start: folks loved the Bush poster. They couldn’t get enough of honking their horns and gesticulating wildly. I stayed out there for a full two minutes, and I only received one bit of positive feedback. One guy pulled over his car and stuck his upper torso out the window, shouting, “I’m an Arab, and I too love Bush!” He looked at me with those adoring eyes, the kind a man gives a girl when he’s found his lone kindred spirit in a sea of damn dirty hippies … .
Anyway, two minutes was more than enough with Bush, so I let traffic go through and changed over to the bananas poster. That’s what the trouble started. People legitimately liked this poster. Drivers were cracking up left and right, and the honks were significantly shorter than they had been in the previous two minutes.
Encouraged by the love and adoration of the people, I developed a little banana dance where I would jump around from foot to foot shouting, “Bananas are so great, man! They are so unbelievably yellow!” But it was snowing at the time — the streets were slick and menacing — and a few cars were starting to swerve around me. As I dodged an insane motorist barreling toward me, I slipped and landed smack dab on my 5th metatarsal (on the side near the pinky toe). (Note: I am not a klutz, and by no means did I ignominiously fall over my own feet.)
You know what? Maybe I didn’t see this dare through to the end. But at the very least, I figure this will give me a bit of street cred like Fiddy Cent. I hear he got shot nine times and then drove himself to the hospital. I’m almost as badass as that, except I ended up calling the MIT Ambulance for transport. Honestly, I can’t say enough good things about those EMT guys. They almost made the experience worth it.
At the hospital I kept giggling and asking for morphine; somehow the entire situation seemed hilarious, and I think the pain was starting to impair my judgment. I was in such a good mood that the hospital staff didn’t believe I’d hurt my foot at all until the X-rays came back showing these two, hardcore fractures. I-told-you-so never felt so good!
Anyways, my foot still hurts like a MoFo. Hey, I’ve got a dare for you: I dare any of you to volunteer to be my personal assistant for the next four to six weeks. The job will involve making my food, doing my laundry, cleaning up after me, attending my classes to take notes, etc. While the position is unpaid and has no benefits to speak of, the gratification you’ll get from doing such a good act will be its own reward. Really. Plus, if you don’t, I’ll have to get some freshman on my floor to do it. Or get all of them whacked.
Send your Gimpy McBroke-Foot friendly dares to email@example.com — she’ll jump right on it.