Several years ago I was playing around with a butterfly knife when I accidentally closed it on my finger. With ninja-like reflexes I pulled my finger out, whipping it across the blade and gaining a horribly deep cut for my trouble. Panicking, I ran to the bathroom and frantically dug through drawers, flinging items left and right in my search for something to staunch the flow of blood. Not finding anything “official” – like a bandage – I grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wrapped it around my bloody finger. Just as I was applying pressure to the wound the doorbell rang. Still not thinking too clearly, I ran to open it and found a couple of JW’s standing there. Embarrassed about the cut finger, and not wanting to alarm them, I held that hand behind the door and nodded politely as they went through their standard schpeel. I was hoping to God that I wouldn’t pass out from the loss of blood, when they finally finished and asked me for a 50 cent donation for one of their magazines. Wanting to get rid of them as quickly as possible so that I could continue tending to my wound, I ran back to my bedroom and grabbed some change off of my dresser. When I got back to the door, I had a complete brain fart and handed them the money with my wounded hand. The toilet paper was now thoroughly soaked in blood. They took one look at it, dropped their entire stack of magazines and took off without even a “God bless you, sir.” I never saw them again.
