I reported to the skydiving school at 8 AM for my very first jump. The instructor was an ex-marine named Willie who claimed to have made 500 safe jumps, and one unsafe one. The group assumed that this was some kind of freshman induction joke, but it worried me enough to ask Madge (the coffee shop waitress with a 50's beehive and a giant festering mole on her lip) if Willie was kidding.
"Nah, honey, why'd you think he walks with a limp?"
Indeed, Willie did have a limp... but I was stuck. I'd look like a weenie to take off now and besides, I'd already paid the 200 bucks. But as Willie prepared us for our first plunge, I decided that he did seem to know what he was doing.
You have to take several hours of teaching before you're allowed to jump out of the plane. I'd eaten at Bob Evan's early that morning, and had at least five cups of coffee. At the school, I'd had another cup of Madge's coffee, and then a little lunch at the coffee shop before the big jump. I'd only peed once the whole morning and I knew I needed to do a "fly by" before getting ready to jump.
Finally, the time arrived to get suited up, and Willie urged us to avoid the "dumpjump" -- which I assumed was some sort of skydiving lingo for diarrhea at 1800 feet.
Four of my fellow freshmen made their way in and out of the restroom, but I simply did not feel the urge to go. I went in there anyway as Willie was rounding us up to get out onto the tarmac. I was able to pee again, but I couldn't do anything else, so I ran out to join the others. I got suited up and finally got on the plane.
Bob's sausage links and Madge's BLT finally called out a very polite, "might need to come out when it's convenient." I didn't think much about it, as I was completely absorbed with the idea of actually jumping out of a plane.
We climbed to many thousands of feet, and fear and loathing gripped my intense-hole. The message was now "release the trunk latch as soon as possible." A vile sensation -- similar to finding a chopped thumb in your egg roll -- gripped my mind. Which was worse, having to jump out of the plane or needing to download my flapper?
Willie was shouting some instructions now, but I couldn't hear anything. My stomach's message had changed to an alarming "three wolverines are fighting over a pot-pie under your appendix!!!"
Three people had already been pushed out, and Willie turned to me. "Get ready and follow the drill!"
The only thing I could possibly be ready for was giving birth to an asteroid. I grunted, and decided to let the dam burst.
This was a serious situation, no doubt, and while Willie was still saying something, an explosive propane fire melted out of my backside. Willie flapped his mouth open in a look of total horror and moved back as if shot out of a cannon. I felt immediately better and jumped out, making sure I knew where the cord was.
On the way to Earth I yanked, and the chute opened exactly as Willie said it would. I cannot remember a single moment after that. The only thing I can recall is that Willie somehow got out behind me, and free-fell below me. I saw his chute open and watched him drift well off course, landing in a pond with legs and arms flapping all over the place as he tried to avoid the drenching.
I landed safely and squished my way back. If you're ever constipated, enroll in a skydiving class.
-- Michigan
