Owtch.

Reminds me of one printed in "True Facts" in National Lampoon magazine about thirty years ago-
in spite of the title, I never believed it until I heard it again from Paul Harvey, many moons later-

this is as I remember it, and badly paraphrased, I'm sure, but everybody's just gotta trust ol' Lumpy now and then (he-heh!)

So, this fella goes out and buys himself a brand-spankin' new motorsickle, and can't help but bring it into the living room of his first-floor "garden" apartment, since it's raining outside, and there's no other way to keep the newest love of his life dry and squeaky-clean.

Since he can't be out riding it tonite in the rain, he decides to phone his best pal to have him come over and ogle this work of two-wheeled art.

The buddy arrives, and almost immediately asks what she sounds like. Proud Papa turns the key, and not knowing that he needs to check first that she's NOT IN GEAR, blips the starter button, and Baby roars to life, dragging Papa over her, since he has a fistful of the throttle, which he instinctively twists as she starts up, thereby removing Baby from her sidestand, and flopping over in the living room floor, Papa atop the wild steed.....on impact with the floor, the "flip-open" gas cap DOES, and fuel disperses itself well into the carpet, as the screaming mount does doughnuts in the middle of the family room....until Papa's influence on the beast somehow points her out thru the patio
sliding door, which, fortunately, is only a closed screen at this point- closed, but not for long.
Owner and bike demolish the closed screen, and trashing bike destroys TWO panes of patio door glass....

It is not known whether the once-proud owner's much-belated dexterity with the kill-switch stops the charge, or the roaring engine just happens to expire, but anywho, the roughed up Gentleman and
Ride end up akimbo on the patio, both ALL scraped up, and one hurting to the depths of his soul.

As the owner is taken away by ambulance for attention to his not-so-serious injuries, but likely a few minor fractures, the best friend dabs up what he can of the spilled fuel with a handful of paper towel, and drops it into the porcelain convenience, and flushes.. The good friend picks up the scooter and parks it back in the living room, maybe to allow her to reflect on the evil she has done, then mops up more fuel on the patio, and disposes of the high-octane paper towel in the same manner as before, but this time, without flushing.

Buddy-boy eventually returns from the hospital, broken hearted, broken armed, and rugburnt. He's lucky he wasn't cut to ribbons by the shattered plateglass patio doors...

Having sufficiently surveyed his shattered domain, our Hero retires to the porcelain convenience, APPARENTLY too dejected to sense the smell of gasoline-- enroute, he fires up a Marlboro.. after a brief interlude of relief and reflection, he does a one-cheek-sneak and drops the igniton source into the bowl, just as he flushes, and APPARENTLY there is JUST enough benzine fumage in the bowl, along with an ADDITIONAL and IDENTICAL fuel source coming up in a huge flushing belchbubble from the depths of the drain, and

ka-BLOOOOOOOIE.

Seems that his fanny seal on the seat, and the proximity of the toilet ring to the top of the bowl was just enough to confine the explosion to the bowl, causing it to rupture violently, fragmenting terribly, not to even mention a helluva flash fire for a microsecond, rendering
severe burns to exposed tender areas, all of which were in "DANGER CLOSE" proximity to the "impact zone". The concussion of all that action in such a confined space also launched our Ass-tronaut into semi-orbit, ending up face-first in the adjacent tub. Owtch a-freakin-gain.

Our seemingly professional victim must have related his tale of woe to the ambulance crew on the way to the hospital the first time, and the second time, BECAUSE:

To add insult to injury, in that the returning (VERY SAME) ambulance crew had placed him face-down (cervical collar and all) on the gurney, porcelain-shrapnel-infested-burnt-butt-skyward, exposed to the world because of the burns, as one of the attendants laughed uncontrollably and stumbled, control of the gurney was irretrieveably lost, and our poor Man was unceremoniously dumped, this time, burnt-butt-first, into a very thorny rosebush.

Unfortunately there is no known final chapter, epilogue, or epitaph of the clumsy ambulance attendant.

OK, I've embellished this a bit- but the basic
True Facts speak for themselves, and Paul Harvey does not lie.

Amen.

Lump