I have mentioned this in passing once before, but now’s time to expand on that:

I’m extremely clumsy.

Before you start with the “Oh yeah, me too, totally,” shut up! You know nothing! It’s almost become trendy lately to be a clumsy dork, so now everyone’s trying to jump on the klutz bandwagon. Well I’m here to tell you right now: I’ve been a klutz since before you were born. (I’m also 237 years old, but let’s leave that for another post.)

When I say I’m clumsy, I don’t mean I occasionally slip on recently washed floors (although that happens, too). I mean every day that I manage to avoid accidentally inflicting damage upon myself due to sheer stupidity can be considered a major success. It’s a special brand of clumsiness. Nay, it’s more than mere clumsiness. It’s clumsiness mixed with extreme absent-mindedness and idiocy.

How bad is it? Well, let’s just say I’m surprised I’m still alive. For example, I was once using a towel to dry two knives at the same time. Midway through this complicated procedure, I realized that while the towel was sliding up and down the blade of the first knife, the sharp end of the second knife was basically sliding up and down my wrist. A few millimeters was all that stopped me from ending up as the most embarrassing case of accidental suicide in history.

Now you’re thinking, “Come on, Daniel, it can’t be that bad. You’re just bringing up an isolated case from many years ago. But feel free to ignore me, since I’m just a hypothetical person you have conveniently inserted into your post as a clichéd and overused joke device.” You know what, figment of my imagination? I think I will ignore you, because you clearly don’t know what you’re talking about. Deal with it. And don’t be such a brown-hoodie-wearing little crybaby about it.

To further illustrate just how frequent and over-the-top these moments of clumsiness and brainlessness are, allow me to focus on three specific episodes. All of them happened during the course of a single weekend. This past weekend. Please trust me when I say that none of what follows is made up or exaggerated for comedic effect. This is 100 percent real. This is my life. Every day.

1. Hot stove make ouchie?
My wife cooked dinner. On an electric stove. Cooking dinner requires a hot stove. I was right next to the hot stove and witnessed the frying pan being moved away from it. I was perfectly aware of the stove being hot. Cut to 20 seconds later: I notice some cat hair in the vicinity of the hot stove. I try to sweep the cat hair from the stove with my hand. My whole palm makes full contact with the burning hot stove. I cry out like someone who just had their hand burned by a hot stove. The curtain falls. At least I was smart enough to avoid putting ice on the burn.

2. Coffee. Shaken, stirred, spilled all over.
My wife woke me with a coffee in bed (Did I ever mention I have an amazing wife? Because I have an amazing wife.) Once I was half-done with my coffee, I decided to migrate to the kitchen and finish drinking it there. I picked up the cup with the caffeine-laced beverage, grabbed my smartphone and some clothes to change into, and proceeded to the kitchen. I was about to place my cup on the kitchen counter when I noticed some cat hair on it (are you starting to see a pattern?). A normal person would place the cup and the smartphone on the counter, go and put on some clothes, then return to clean cat hair and other foreign objects from the counter.

I am not a normal person.

Instead, I tried to free up a hand…by placing the smartphone under the armpit of the same arm that was holding my coffee. Sadly, that armpit already contained some of the aforementioned items of clothing. As a result, these items began to fall. To counter that development, I frantically moved to grab them with the hand that was holding the phone. This motion made the phone slip out of my hand…to which I responded with a full body shake usually reserved for people prone to severe epileptic seizures. The combination of all these jerky movements and laws of physics forced the coffee out of my cup and onto the counter, the nearby clean dishes, the clothes I was about to wear, the smartphone I almost dropped, and my naked torso (ladies).

Side note: I am actually still wearing the coffee-stained T-shirt as I write this, against my wife’s better judgment, because aside from being a klutz, I’m also a massive slob when it comes to clothing.

3. Belt buckle ball buster.
We were cleaning our house this weekend. On the floor of the bedroom, there lay a pair of jeans belonging to yours truly. The jeans lay there in twisted knots of shame, after having been haphazardly discarded by me the night before (see “clothing slob” above). I had a simple task: to lift the jeans off the floor and straighten them out. To achieve this goal, I grabbed the top of the jeans with both of my hands and gave them a single, forceful shake…

Fun fact: The front of the jeans was facing me.

Fun fact number two: A belt with a rather heavy metal buckle was inside the jeans.

Fun fact number three: The area of my crotch and the belt-having part of the jeans were located at equal height.

Fun fact number four: I did not take any of the above facts into consideration when I vigorously jerked the jeans forward and then back toward my body.

The belt buckle made a powerful, almost audible impact with the part of my anatomy that contains the testicles…which was a contrived way of saying the buckle hit me right in the nuts.

My response to this collision was level-headed and dignified: I immediately collapsed on the floor, rolling around and grabbing my groin with both hands. I let out loud noises that some would describe as “high-pitched, girlish screams” but that were actually very effective communication techniques I applied to convey the distress and discomfort I was experiencing.

With the amount of damage I cause to myself and our property (mostly myself, though), I sometimes wonder how my wife has tolerated me for this long. On the other hand, she does find these moronic episodes hilarious (after making sure that I haven’t caused myself permanent injury). But maybe all of this works out in the end? My wife takes care of me and makes sure I don’t murder myself. I entertain her with a nonstop, unscripted slapstick routine. Tell me that isn’t how the perfect marriage is supposed to work!

Are you clumsy? Do you wish you were? Can you beat my stories? You can’t, but let’s see you try.