I haven’t seen one of these in a while and we have some lurkers and newbies and stuff. So tell me, what is the story behind yours? I’ll go first:
As a kid I was super into magic, like most kids are. Well me and my sister were parked in the living room with the TV, eating popcorn; I was about 8, the sis was 5. I decided this would be the perfect time to do a trick: make a kernel go in one ear and come out the other, because what could possibly be between my ears, right?!
So I put this kernel in my ear, and I mean it is in there, y’all. I tilt my head to the left, expecting it to come falling out... And it didn’t. There was nothing. So me and Penny (my sister, who has that nickname because of a trick of hers, given to her by the same person who gave me mine) are looking frantically for this damn kernel and can’t find it. So we get to work trying to get it out of my ear. Q-tip? Nope. Toothpick? Nothing. BBQ skewer thingy? Carefully, and with no damage to my body, still nothing. Panicked and really not wanting to tell my mom, I decide to sleep and hope it comes out overnight. The next morning I’m looking around for it, and still. Nothing! So, I have to tell my mom. I give her the story about the magic and she flips out, “ZOMGKRYSTINAWHATISWRONGWITHYOUWHYDIDNTYOUTELLMEYOUCOULDHAVEHURTYOURSELF!!”
So we head to the ER and a doctor who can barely contain his laughter when the story is recounted tries to get the kernel out. They lay me down on my side and try to keep me calm as they try to vacuum this godforsaken kernel from my ear with a narrow tube. It hurst like hell, and becasue it hurts like hell, I scream, which tenses the muscles around my ear. After three failed attempts the doc says I’ll need a local and come back tomorrow. So we do, and I get put under to remove a kernel from my ear - something that literally took a couple minutes, tops. I wake up groggy with cotton in my ear and my parents are presented with a discovery bag with a lone kernel in it covered with a little wax from having been so deep in my ear.
Not long after my very traumatic (not really traumatic) ordeal, my dad calls my uncle who thinks it’s hysterical. He has a terrible stutter, and the only thing he asks me and my parents: “W-w-why didn’t you j-just stick her head in the o-o-oven? Woulda popped right out!” So from then on I was called Jiffy. As in Jiffy Pop. I am 28, and my uncle has not called me Krystina in almost 20 years.
And yes, we still have the goddamn kernel.