A head wound from a falling what?

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I'm sitting at San Francsico Airport waiting for my ride (my plane came in half an hour early from London — take that, air travel grumblers!), and beside me is a British Airways cabin crew member waiting for a friend. He just told me about a flight he was once on where an overhead bin opened accidentally and a didgeridoo fell out and hit a passenger on the head so hard that medics on the flight recommended he be taken off the flight at the first opportunity to land. It's hard to believe people would take seriously the idea that you were just sitting reading when you suffered a head wound from a falling didgeridoo. On the same flight there had been a case of vomiting, and a passenger who had fouled his pants. At the end of the whole flight the pilot said to the crew, "Let's take stock. We've had a spew, a poo, and a didgeridoo. You couldn't make it up, could you?" And I swear I didn't. Poetry in real life. My flight to California, I'm so glad to say, was much less eventful; nothing to write poetry about.

[This post is uncategorized, and I really think it has to be. If our system of categories allowed it, I would mark it "uncategorizable".]

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