Okay, I'll admit my own stupidity that falls into the two of the classes, above: 1) JEBenson's Pizza-Buddy category and 2) John's (AnotherHiggins) youth-are-idiots category.
I was about 13 years old at the time; my younger brother was 8 and younger sister was about 6. My dad made me clean out and sweep the garage spotless every Saturday. Part of the "spotless" process was to get rid of the drips of oil on the garage's concrete floor that had escaped from a leaky crankcase on one of our vehicles. For oil removal, I always used a little gasoline as a solvent.
Following the "annointing" of one particular pesky oil spot with the solvent, and always wanting to impress my impressionable younger siblings, I decided to display my "magical powers" by showing them how I could make concrete "burn". I flicked a match onto the small pool while my sibs were mesmerised by the dancing flames.
Soon, however, the flames produced the accompanying black, stinky smoke (in the garage), so I figured that I should put out the flames. To smother the flames, I grabbed the closest "smotherer", which I found out moments too late, was the gasoline-soaked cleanup rag. This, of course, just intensified the flames. So, in response to the increased flames, I kicked the flaming rag outside of the garage.
But then, the kicked, flaming rag landed smack against the foot of a tinder-dry wooden fence. I ran over and kicked the rag again away from the wooden fence. But in my growing panic, I didn't aim my kick very well...just simply away from the fence...and the now-engulfed rag landed squarely on the 3-inch-diameter opening of the completely full 5-gallon military-style gasoline can ! <yikes>
Envisioning an explosion that would take out the entire garage, me, and my sibs, I figured the only way to prevent an explosion was to
dissipate the fuel...And the best way to dissipate the fuel: Kick the Can, of course!
Do you know how big a fire can result from 5-gallons of high-test gasoline?...Pretty big! The flames were reaching about 40 feet in the air. Of course my sibs instantly snapped out of their deer-in-the-headlights mesmery into those little wind-up toys that you put on a table and they spin around, knocking into each other and knocking each other over, then doing the same Keystone-Cops routine over and over again, and screaming, "Dave's burning the house down !!! Dave's burning the house down !!!"
My dad comes rushing out of the house to see what all the commotion is, just to be met with the 40-ft. flames and the "Keystone Kids" bumping into each other, knocking each other over. He tries to put out the flames by smothering them with the large (6'x4') cardboard drip pans used to catch oil drips, but the fire is too large.
Not understanding that the fire is gasoline, he screams to me to go get the hose. Being too young to realise that you don't pour water on a gasoline fire, I obey. I run to the back of the house for the hose. During my run, I'm thinking to myself, "Why don't those stupid Keystone Kids just shuuuut uuuuuup? Their panic isn't helping." So, as I run I hear myself screaming (to no one within earshot), "Shut up, shut up, shut up."
By this time, the Keystone Kids are running to all the neighbors' homes announcing that "Dave's burning down the house!"...Dad's trying to put out a gasoline fire by dumping water on it...And I'm contemplating the thrasing I'm going to be in for as a result of all this.
My dad ended up with pretty severe second-degree burns on his face and arms...The previously tar covered asphalt driveway had a big 8'-diameter burn scar on it...the house was fine...the Keystone Kids and I were fine...
...And through it all, after the fire was out and I had explained my stupidity, my dad, realising that I had already put myself through more Hell than he could offer me, just hugged the three of us and said, "You are three lucky kids...I'm a lucky dad. Don't play with matches ever again.
...And I haven't in the all the 40 ensuing years.
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Mufasa
(aka Dave of Sandy, Utah, USA)
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