You Don’t Know Pain

You Don’t Know Pain

I don’t know who Hamish and Andy are. They’re from Australia, I gather, where everything from goldfish to petunias will sting you, so I assumed they’d be a little more stoic about the whole thing. The one with the disco deficiency put on mittens full of bullet ants. I gather that little boys in that tribe do it to prove how tough they are, and they do it twenty times or so before they find a more salubrious hobby like mumblety peg or tickling caimans or something. And these two have the unmitigated gall to call this the worst pain known to man? Pfft.

Please. They’ve obviously never filled out a Schedule C at midnight on April 14th. Try swimming at Old Orchard Beach in Maine in May. Go on, I double dog dare you. Don’t they have Catholic schools in Australia? Stick out your hands for a nun holding a metal edge ruler and get back to me.

For cripes sake, these tribesmen have never even heard of Bucky Dent. They don’t know pain.

[Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one over]

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