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The Darwin Awards salutes the spirit portrayed in the following personal accounts, submitted by loyal (and sometimes reluctant) readers. |
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(ca. 1978, Indiana) My friend's father, Bob, was a volunteer fireman and a
home mechanic. He was also a heavy drinker who never seemed to be without
booze in his hand. One day I was helping him repair one of their cars. Bob,
already well into a six-pack when I arrived, believed that the fuel line
was blocked. His solution began with jacking the car up a few feet, and
draining the 12 gallons of gasoline from the tank.
In the process of disconnecting the fuel line from the tank, gasoline spilled all over Bob, soaking his polyester shirt and flooding the floor of the garage. Bob then used several five-gallon buckets to catch the remaining gasoline that was pouring out of the tank. Although the garage door was open to allow ventilation, the fumes were so thick that my friend and I had to step outside to breathe. Bob remained laying on the garage floor, in a pool of gasoline beneath the car.
After the initial blast, Bob picked himself up and reacting as the trained and experienced firefighter he was: he grabbed a fire extinguisher and put out the flames. Only then did he realize that his polyester shirt had melted to his now thoroughly burned chest. He refused his wife's assistance and, despite his inebriated state, drove himself to the local hospital. Bob lost most of the skin on his chest and most of the hair on his head. He also spent several days in the burn unit, and was ultimately tossed out of the local volunteer fire department.
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