One of the worst has to do with tent city, eating food from a foreign country during the first few days of Desert Shield, no TP, and the idiots who decided to clean both latrine tents at the same time. Your imagination can do the rest...
I used to run a snubbing unit. We were snubbing production tubing into a well once and had a faulty ceramic disk on the bottom of the tubing.
The disk let go and sent about 1000 psi up the tubing. All of the rig hands ran away and left the pipe blowing oil into the air. I grabbed a kill valve and ran up to the basket and attempted to thread it into the tubing while oil filled my eyelids, nose, and ears and blew my hard hat off. I had to throw my boots away as they filled to the top with oil and I couldn't hear for about 12 hours.
The disk let go and sent about 1000 psi up the tubing. All of the rig hands ran away and left the pipe blowing oil into the air. I grabbed a kill valve and ran up to the basket and attempted to thread it into the tubing while oil filled my eyelids, nose, and ears and blew my hard hat off. I had to throw my boots away as they filled to the top with oil and I couldn't hear for about 12 hours.
I have had a few over the years...such as this one:
While working for a power utility company in the early seventies, I had to also perform "cut on/off" duties. In parts of my assigned area, being threatened or having knives or guns pulled on me was SOP. One of my worst calls involved a special request from the dispatcher for a "special meter reading" in a neighboring area a few miles from me.
I finally found the farm house, located smack dab in the middle of the toolies, and discovered the meter was located inside of the enclosed porch. I parked my pickup sixty feet or so from the house, went through the chain link fence gate, and I knocked on the storm door of the enclosed porch. No one was home so I stepped into the enclosed room and read the meter.
No sooner had I written down the reading and put my pen back into my shirt pocket, when all hell began to break loose. That aforementioned hell was in the form of a highly pissed off dog lunging against the entry door from inside the house.
As I closed the storm door behind me the dog was nearly through the hollow core entry door. Before I was through the chain link gate the dog had destroyed both the entry door and the aluminum storm door and was heading in my direction. I made a mad dash to my pickup to no avail. The dog flew into me and began to maul me on the graveled driveway as if I were a rag doll. My attacker was a 140 pound coon hound from the dark side, and I was his new chew toy.
The dog and I rolled and wrestled each other in the gravel. I only weighed 150 myself back then, but the damned dog had way more weapons than I did. (I had left my tool bag inside my pickup since I was just reading the meter) I was trying to both kill and neuter him, while he was doing the same to me. I finally jammed my pen into the inside of his throat, causing him to momentarily back off a few seconds while he tried to dislodge the ink pen. I made the last few feet to the safety of my pickup barely closing the door in time.
I backed down the long driveway with the damn dog still on the hood. The dog quit once I had gone maybe 100 yards down the county road. I radioed dispatch and was instructed to go to the industrial clinic the company used for minor injuries and get a t-shot and a band-aid before my next work order.
The receptionist was filling out her paperwork for my visit and asked me as to where the little doggie had bitten me. I simply replied "all over". She stood up from behind the walk up counter in order to see where I had been bitten. What see saw was my shredded uniform with blood stains and fresh blood still staining. I was ushered right in without having to wait.
One of the doctors cleaned and stitched my rips and tears while another cleaned my puncture wounds. The total count was 28 separate full bite marks and thirty some stitches, all in various anatomical locations, one destroyed uniform, one pair of leather lineman boots suitable for use as a watering can, and one big ass shot.
My supervisor was waiting outside for me as I was discharged from the clinic. My pickup had claw marks on one door and the hood, and had been taken back to the plant. My supervisor gave me a ride home while he informed me the clinic had notified the Sheriff's Office to have the dog picked up, and they were worried the dog had rabies due to the ferocity involved.
I had the next three days off from work.
I got to see a copy of the police report. The deputy made note concerning the demolished doors, broken glass, and blood stains drag marks on the driveway. The comical part included on the report was where the dog's owner said the dog would never bite anyone. The dog was put down and sent for testing.
It turned out the dog was not rabid. He was only batshit crazy like some of the folk on my ignore list.
While working for a power utility company in the early seventies, I had to also perform "cut on/off" duties. In parts of my assigned area, being threatened or having knives or guns pulled on me was SOP. One of my worst calls involved a special request from the dispatcher for a "special meter reading" in a neighboring area a few miles from me.
I finally found the farm house, located smack dab in the middle of the toolies, and discovered the meter was located inside of the enclosed porch. I parked my pickup sixty feet or so from the house, went through the chain link fence gate, and I knocked on the storm door of the enclosed porch. No one was home so I stepped into the enclosed room and read the meter.
No sooner had I written down the reading and put my pen back into my shirt pocket, when all hell began to break loose. That aforementioned hell was in the form of a highly pissed off dog lunging against the entry door from inside the house.
As I closed the storm door behind me the dog was nearly through the hollow core entry door. Before I was through the chain link gate the dog had destroyed both the entry door and the aluminum storm door and was heading in my direction. I made a mad dash to my pickup to no avail. The dog flew into me and began to maul me on the graveled driveway as if I were a rag doll. My attacker was a 140 pound coon hound from the dark side, and I was his new chew toy.
The dog and I rolled and wrestled each other in the gravel. I only weighed 150 myself back then, but the damned dog had way more weapons than I did. (I had left my tool bag inside my pickup since I was just reading the meter) I was trying to both kill and neuter him, while he was doing the same to me. I finally jammed my pen into the inside of his throat, causing him to momentarily back off a few seconds while he tried to dislodge the ink pen. I made the last few feet to the safety of my pickup barely closing the door in time.
I backed down the long driveway with the damn dog still on the hood. The dog quit once I had gone maybe 100 yards down the county road. I radioed dispatch and was instructed to go to the industrial clinic the company used for minor injuries and get a t-shot and a band-aid before my next work order.
The receptionist was filling out her paperwork for my visit and asked me as to where the little doggie had bitten me. I simply replied "all over". She stood up from behind the walk up counter in order to see where I had been bitten. What see saw was my shredded uniform with blood stains and fresh blood still staining. I was ushered right in without having to wait.
One of the doctors cleaned and stitched my rips and tears while another cleaned my puncture wounds. The total count was 28 separate full bite marks and thirty some stitches, all in various anatomical locations, one destroyed uniform, one pair of leather lineman boots suitable for use as a watering can, and one big ass shot.
My supervisor was waiting outside for me as I was discharged from the clinic. My pickup had claw marks on one door and the hood, and had been taken back to the plant. My supervisor gave me a ride home while he informed me the clinic had notified the Sheriff's Office to have the dog picked up, and they were worried the dog had rabies due to the ferocity involved.
I had the next three days off from work.
I got to see a copy of the police report. The deputy made note concerning the demolished doors, broken glass, and blood stains drag marks on the driveway. The comical part included on the report was where the dog's owner said the dog would never bite anyone. The dog was put down and sent for testing.
It turned out the dog was not rabid. He was only batshit crazy like some of the folk on my ignore list.
A couple years later when I heard the story about John Eubanks and the souped up wildcat, I knew exactly how he felt.
Ain't trying to win a dadburned ole thang, just relaying one of my bad days so y'all might feel a mite better about yores.
I could have told you about the funeral home, or one of many others.
Jesus CHRIST, man!!! I spent my entire life around other people's dogs. Even as a kid it wasn't unusual for a half dozen grown men to send me to get a particularly unruly dog. I've NEVER been dog bit, much less mauled like you! ****!! If that hurts anything like a cat bite (which I have gotten several times, little mother****ers) I cannot imagine how sore you were. Damn. You win, dude. You win. 
