When was 4 or 5, my family and I were on vacation and staying with some friends who lived in a house quite a ways up a canyon. Their property was up against one of the canyon walls, and they had a large cherry orchard and some rabbit pens. My sister wanted to go look at the rabbits, and I wanted some cherries, so we went out into the yard without telling my parents where we were going.
After I had eaten my fill, we went looking for the animal pens with all the cute little bunnies. We found some empty cages, and were trying to figure out why there were no rabbits in them, when I heard a sound. I turned around, and there was this huge rattlesnake less than 10 feet (that's 3.05 meters for all you non-americans) away from us. We ran all the way back to the house, screaming our heads off the whole way. My dad and brother went out and chopped the snake up into pieces with some spades, buried the head, put all the pieces in a bucket, and my brother kept the rattle as a prize. My mom chastised my sister and me, saying that we knew not to go out on our own because of the rattlesnakes that live in the rocks by the canyon walls.
A while later, I was out on the porch drawing in a coloring book, when my curiosity got the better of me. I walked over to the bucket my dad left on the edge of the patio (WTF dad!), and inside I find a dismembered zombie-snake writhing around like it was trying to get out and exact revenge on the little kid who is responsible for it's being chopped apart by gardening tools. I spent the next 15 minutes or so banging on the locked door into the house and bawling my eyes out. Turns out that my father had left to go somewhere (and took my siblings with him) right after my mom had gotten into the shower (WTF again, dad!)
That story has absolutely nothing to do with me being called snakebite. One day, when I was 14, one of my brother's friends randomly started calling me Snakebite. The end.
You win.
/thread
Brilliant.





Back to top










