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"Foon!"

A selection of classic fireball fables from the "Friday Funnies"

Here's How Not To Get Invited Back To a Barbecue (September 2004)

While the chef isn't looking and before he lights off the charcoal, soak it real good with starter fluid and don't tell him. Ideally, he'll have his t-shirt hanging out, and when the "Foon!" occurs, the shirt will catch fire. Thirty seconds later, he'll have second-degree burns on his face and chest, and you will be on the persona non grata list indefinitely.

Happened in Guam to a TMFN. Cast quite a damper on the backyard party, and he missed eight days of work.

Note to Benny Sugg committee: purchase mass quantities of 4-foot wooden matchsticks and distribute to fleet as soon as possible.

A First- And Second-Degree "I Told You So" (August 2004)

It occurred to me the other day that we hadn't had a good "Foon!" In a while, and wouldn't ya know, a lance corporal leaped into the breach and provided a doozy.

Seems that a ground burst simulator didn't go off during a field exercise. The Marine was on ammo guard duty, so he had a chance to do some field work in support of his freelance B.S. (Boneheaded Silliness) degree. He took the dud apart, dumped the powder on the ground, and reached for his butane lighter.

The device simulated a ground burst right then, believe you me. The term "dud" was no longer applicable, what with his face and hand partly flambee'd.

And then an E-6 provided another when he poured some gasoline on a bonfire, stood a foot away and tossed the match. "Foon!" He instantly became part of the bonfire. He dropped, rolled and extinguished himself, but not before suffering second and third degree burns on his head, face, hands, arms, feet and legs. Doctors weren't sure how long it would take him to recover; at last report, he'd spent two weeks in a burn unit and was looking at at least a month and a half away from work.

I'm not encouraged by the following statements from the report: "Unfortunately, nothing new was learned from this event. The dangers of using gasoline to start a fire are well-known." Well, I guess the E-6 learned something new.

Cue the "Banshee Shriek" Soundtrack, Please (July 2003)

An HT3 at a beach near San Diego had to light a bonfire.

Yup, there's another one of those words. Veteran readers are already reaching for the fire extinguisher and the first-aid kit and dialing 9-1-1.

Needless to say, the HT3 was pouring some regular unleaded from a Dixie cup onto some reluctant firewood and, unwittingly, onto embers from the previous night's fire. (Gene, cue both the "Banshee Shriek" and the "Approaching Siren" sound tracks. I think that first one is in the Halloween collection.)

Everyone else, repeat after me. Three. two. one. "Foon!" The fireball erupted (take it from me, it is always much larger and faster than you can believe). Just as the HT3 leaped back and sloshed gas on his legs, the wind shifted and blew the flames onto him, igniting his nether regions like a marshmallow held into the campfire too long. A witness helped extinguish the burning trousers and drove the sailor to the nearest doc, who referred him to a burn-treatment center. That excruciating experience and a stay at a Navy hospital accounted for 11 miserable days, followed by two more weeks away from work.

"We cannot overstate the obvious," the message said. "Never use gasoline to light a bonfire or barbeque pit." I'm not afraid of overstating the obvious, because for thousands of ignition-challenged folks, it must not be that obvious.

Please make a note: "mildly flammable" (as is the case with charcoal starter, which the message recommended) is not the same as "explosive" (as is the case with gasoline, no matter how many thousands of gallons you've safely pumped into your car). And, to finish off this line of thought, starting a campfire isn't the same as vaporizing your moustache and eyebrows.

The message also recommended using rolled-up newspapers. This latter item is especially handy for smacking anyone who suggests using gasoline or appears with a mysterious flammable liquid in a cup. Hit them on the forehead as hard as you can, before they get anywhere near the grill, bonfire or campfire. Use a piece of firewood if you have to.

Knowing Which Way Is "On" and "Off" Would Help (June 2003)

Summer also brings cookouts, source of an endless series of charred burgers, blackened hot dogs, and an occasional seared hand or scorched arm. Which brings to mind the lieutenant who was working as a food vendor at a local festival. He'd had four years of experience with this sideline, so when it came time to swap out the propane tanks connected by a Y-gate to some deep fat fryers, it should have been routine. He closed the valve and disconnected the hose on one tank, but then smelled leaking gas. He immediately reconnected the hose and tried to close the valve on the other tank, but turned the knob the wrong way. He then tried to disconnect the first hose a second time. By this time, gas was merrily hissing and billowing all around and soon reached the pilot light on a grill at an adjacent food vendor. Startled customers thought that either the fireworks had started early or the orchestra was offering a three-D version of the William Tell overture. In a nutshell: "Foon!"

After a quick ambulance ride to the nearest emergency room, the lieutenant got to hear doctors talking about such disconcerting topics as "skin grafting" and the first- and second-degree burns on the back of both of his legs and left arm. He spent three unfestive days in the hospital, 20 days on convalescent leave, and awaited a further medical eval.

The message recommended that you "carefully follow operating-instruction-manual safety procedures when connecting or disconnecting propane tanks." Knowing which way is "on" and "off" would also help.

The Unmistakable Sound of a Weber Bomb Going Off (April 2003)

I'm an Air National Guard officer in a state with a lot of do-it-yourselfers, including my neighbor. I was mowing my lawn last summer when I noticed him preparing to have a barbecue. I mowed for five minutes when, above the low drone of my mower, I heard the unmistakable "Foon!" of a Weber bomb being detonated. The top half of a 55-gal. steel drum landed about 15 feet from my mower (hmm, how to ORM that?).

Looking next door, I saw my neighbor first doing the backstroke, then pummeling himself, and finally switching to the two-step, all while racing into his house. I ran over to see if I could help.

By way of background, my neighbor knew how to work with sheet metal and had made a bbq grill out of an old 55-gal. steel drum. The construction wasn't the problem; it was the operation (funny how the self-built models never come with an operator's manual).

Somewhere between turning on the gas and lighting the flames, his wife had asked him to empty a hornet trap that was hanging next to the patio roof. She wanted it done before some guests arrived. The trap was about 12 feet in the air, so he dragged the picnic table over. Standing on tiptoe, he could just reach the trap.

Did I mention the gas was still running in the grill, that the lid was closed, and that the edge of the picnic table was less than four feet from the grill?

Just as he grabbed the trap, his mountain-goat-like perch on the picnic table gave way. Swinging his arms backward as he fell, he hit the one thing that could make a bad day worse: the ignition switch. Thus the "Foon!" that I heard. Although he singed all the hair on the back of his head, he luckily landed on his buttocks and upper back and seemed none the worse for wear. Except...oh yea, the bees.

He was still holding the trap. Usually you wait until night and put the trap in a cold place. When the bees are sleepy, you open the trap and dispose of them. However, these bees were both alert and angry. Discovering that they were free, they didn't flee, they attacked (thus the Tarzan impersonation I had noticed).

When the paramedics arrived and got their guffaws under control, they took my neighbor to the hospital where he was treated for first and second degree burns to the neck and posterior scalp, bruised neck bones, multiple bee stings and a fractured tailbone (which explained the two-step).

On the plus side, the trap was empty when the guests arrived.

How Not to Fill Gas Cans at a Gas Station (January 2003)

The latest entry on the charred parchment of the "Foon!" saga was inscribed at an Air Force base. A retired tech sergeant was standing in the back of his pickup truck, filling five 5-gallon gas cans. An alert lieutenant colonel (a former safety officer) was at a nearby pump. He told a local reporter, "I was moving my lips to tell him, 'Sir, don't do that,' when the first flame started in the back of his truck." A spark of static electricity had graphically and dramatically preempted the colonel's warning.

Security cameras videotaped the unfolding scene, a textbook case of how to make something bad into something worse. The sergeant dropped the burning hose, spraying gas all over the truck. He then tried to jettison the burning 5-gallon can, splashing burning fuel on the ground. By now, the fire was eagerly blazing away on the sergeant, in the truck and near the pump.

He jumped down, ran a few dozen yards, then dropped and rolled. Four bystanders helped put out the flames on his gasoline-soaked pants and shoes. Someone called 911, and the base firefighters were on the scene in two minutes. The sergeant was severely burned on both legs.

The gas pump had a clear, legible warning sign on it that said, in part, "set container on ground before filling," because static electricity can ignite gasoline vapors. That's also why you shouldn't climb in and out of your car while filling your tank.

Coming in Second in the Race with the Fireball (October 2001)

This year's winner (herein after designated as Foon-man No. 1-01, in honor of the last sound one hears before one's bib overalls are reduced to ash) got his brush pile going safely but, in a moment of inspired insight, poured (OK, spilled--same thing) gasoline on himself while standing alongside the bonfire. Being a chief and, therefore, not greatly fleet of foot, he only placed--came in second--in the race with the fireball; his arm and both legs suffering major burns. Not necessarily, you understand, due to a lack of speed on his part, rather more likely, because of his choice of a wardrobe: he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt while standing by the fire, spritzing himself with petrol.

So! He's number one! He's number one! Who's ready to be number two?! Show of hands. Anyone?

Next Time, Use a Crossbow (November 2000)

For the second time this year there's word of some ORM-deficient boob trying to outrun the foon-ball that results when yard waste, tree limbs, gasoline, sailors, and a lighted match are brought in close proximity to one another. This dude thought he could beat the odds by setting a piece of paper alight then throwing it into that volatile pile. Lacking a crossbow and a flaming arrow, son, this is never a good idea. I am pretty sure our hero finally realized that as he raced for the Shower to douse the flames and cool the burns while he waited for The ambulance to arrive. No need trying to run, Jack. Like thunder, when you hear that "Foon!" it's already too late. Might as well stand there and take your frying like a man.

Gas? Oh, Yeah, That's a Helluva Solvent (May 1998)

Here's a little more deja vu for you: a third class petty officer somehow convinced himself that he possessed a special exemption from the basic laws of physics and chemistry. So it was, while laboring under this marvelous misapprehension, that he thought nothing of the dangers involved in cleaning the engine of his car with gasoline.

Well, the "Foon!" and the fireball that followed were almost as spectacular as the effect they had on our hero. His eyebrows and eyelashes disappeared in a flash and his hairline beat a fiery retreat to the abeam-the-earlobes position on his skull--leaving a patch of brittle, smelly stubble in its wake.

At the dispensary, after Nurse Ratchet got done working over his burns with Phisohex and a scrub brush, our formerly-but-no-longer-hirsute hero began to realize that, henceforth, he's gonna have to start obeying the basic laws of nature, just like the rest of us.

A Whole New Meaning to the Term "Family Barbecue" (November 1997)

For most of us back here in CONUS who are huddled together for warmth against the cold drizzle of the autumn rain, the memory of summer sunshine and an outdoor bar-b-que is sure to make us smile.

Almost always.

Out yonder, on the island-where-it's-always-summer, this second class petty officer was stokin' up the old Weber as the clan gathered to celebrate his little daughter's birthday. True to form, he wads up a bunch of newspapers, stuffs them under the briquettes, sets a match to them and, just like always, he steps back to admire the results. But this time: nothing. The papers flare up, then die down and black ashes blow all over the place. So he tries again. Same, same. And one mo' time. Nada.

Up steps cousin Vito. Carrying. A. Cup. Of. Gasoline. Says to our hero, "this is the way we do it back in Jersey." (I know you think you know what happens next, but you don't).

So the sailor takes the cup from his cousin and, being a conservative sort, he sprinkles about half of it over the charcoal, sets the cup down, and he waits. Maybe fifteen minutes pass.

Now the petty officer is ready. He gingerly sidles up to the grill, holding his breath against the fumes that are everywhere. He flicks one of those stand-off butane charcoal lighters to life and pokes the business end of that thing into those gasoline-soaked newspapers.

Well... guess what. It didn't explode. Didn't go "ka-blam!" Didn't even go, "Foon!" It just sorta went "whooosh!" And the whole mess was immediately consumed in a merry flame about two feet high. Cool.

So our hero and his cousin are standing there with their arms folded admiring their handy work, and watching the flames dance as they discuss what other innovative ideas Vito may have brought with him from the big island. Unfortunately, what they're not watching, is junior. Junior, who has made off with that half-filled cup of gasoline and is racing around with it in his hand as the other kids chase him, laughing.

Suddenly, the sailor feels something cold and wet splash on his bare back and trickle down into the repairman portion of his anatomy. And he turned around, beloved, to see what was going on. Then his back erupted in a sheet of flames that gave a whole new meaning to the term, "family bar-b-que."

The kids are terrified. They're all screaming, "Daddy's on fire! Daddy's burning up!" Vito dropped his beer. Mom's running for the garden hose and, all the while, there's dear old dad rolling, rather vigorously, around the lawn, trying his best to smother the flame in his bermudas.

Well... He's going to be OK. If you can consider second degree burns on his back and neck and ears lucky, this was a pretty lucky kid, considering what might have happened. But you know what turns the safety nanny's hair whiter than it already is? This guy attended fire prevention awareness training just one week before he caught himself on fire.

Sigh.

The Fireball That Nobody Can Outrun (August 1997)

The lance corporal was visiting friends at a lake-front cabin when his pal asked him for help burning a pile of old wood in the back yard. They sloshed about two and a half gallons of "boat fuel" (known elsewhere as "gasoline and two-stroke motor oil") then dribbled a trail of this stuff for about ten or twelve feet along the ground to give themselves a safe stand-off distance when they lit the "fuse."

You've seen enough of these things, haven't you? You can write your own ending. Remember to include the "Foon!" and the explosion and the part about the flames and the surprised look on the victim's face when he discovers himself enwrapped in a fireball. You know, all the standard stuff. Oh, and don't forget the pain and the skin grafts and stuff like that.

Setting yourself on fire while attempting to burn a brush pile is one thing, of course. Letting your boss do it to you is something else all together, as this grounds keeper discovered.

Boss-man says, go get some of that diesel fuel, dump it on that brush pile yonder, and burn it all up. And, being a dutiful worker, our victim did just what he was told. Problem was, it wasn't diesel in the can. Au contraire, Pierre, it was gasoline. Not that diesel would have been too much better, you understand, but I figure some folks must think diesel blows up slower or something, sort of a "Foooooon" vs. a regular old "Foon!" Or maybe they figure they can out-run a diesel fireball... Who knows.

It's all a moot point anyway, isn't it, when the diesel fuel you dump on the brush pile turns out to be hi-octane, unleaded, super-premium, the fireball of which nobody can outrun.

Then, of course, there's the nose factor. Could anyone who's ever been aboard an LST... In fact, could anyone who's ever been downwind and in the same ocean as an LST... ever mistake gasoline for diesel fuel? I don't think so, Tim.

Anyway, our groundskeeper has had some 80 days away from the job so far to consider what he'll say to the boss the next time he tells him to pour anything (except maybe water) on a brush pile.

Hmm, Not Lit. I Better Take a Closer Look (August 1996)

Get a friend to stand behind you and go "hisssss ..." While you read this one. Have him start now and stop just before the chorus.

The corporal turned on his gas grill and discovered, to his dismay, that the little piezoelectric doo-dad which is supposed to light his fire at the touch of a button didn't work. So, he fiddled with it for a few minutes, then gave up and tried to drop a lighted match in there, but it landed on the top of the fake charcoal briquettes.

"Hmmm. Nothing's happ'nin. So, what's this all about then?" He leaned forward to get a better look at what was going on.

Chorus? Please.

"Foon!"

Thank you. Been there, done that.

A second class and a bunch of his mates put together a family cookout which was scheduled to culminate with this really big bonfire after dark for the wives and the kiddies. Unfortunately, it rained and soaked all the wood they'd stacked up for the event. But, hey, not a problem. One of the guys had the answer. He walked up and sloshed two gallons of gasoline all over the wood pile.

"Foo..."

Not yet! Wait till I point to you.

Now comes our hero who reaches in his pocket, squats down near the soggy wood, and flicks his bic.

Chorus? Please.

"Foon!"

Thank you. Never been there. Never done that.

You know, a wise man once wrote that a good working definition of insanity is when someone keeps doing the same thing over and over again and remains constantly surprised when the results never vary.

I respectfully submit to you that behavior like this is madness writ large and I guarantee that every time someone dumps two gallons of gasoline on a pile of wood (wet or otherwise), then asks you to light it with your cigarette lighter, the results will never vary: you'll catch your face on fire, every time. So stop looking so surprised.

The Amazing Saga of the Jeep, the Jack, the 4x4 and the Fish (June 1996)

Whilst transiting the beach in his four-wheel drive, the first class manages to get his left front tire stuck in the sand. "No step for a stepper," says he, and he pops her into neutral, leaves the motor running, gets out and commences to jack up the front of his veeehicle. Takes a little while, but soon she's sittin' up high enough that our Izaak Walton can jam a 4x4 under the wheel. Good. So he lowers the wheel down onto the 4x4, tosses the jack in the back, clambers into the cab and begins to slowly back away. Very good. She's comin out.

Suddenly, he looks up, glances into the rear view mirror and sees (ohmigod!) great clouds of black smoke billowing out from underneath his car.

Panic city! "Let's get outta here!" So he floors it and pops the clutch and his trusty steed responds by bouncing straight up in the air and falling right back into the hole in the sand from whence it had just cometh. But that's the least of this guy's problems now, cause, when he flopped down in the dirt to see what was causing all the smoke, he discovered that, after sitting there so long with the motor running, the catalytic converter (which are always hot-hot-hot!) had started a grass fire under his jeep.

Furiously, he began scooping sand onto the burning grass, but it had a head start. Suddenly, a plastic skid next to the gas tank burst into flame and he turned his full attention to that issue. He was making some progress there until the skid plate melted and the dripping plastic inflicted first and second degree burns on his hand.

While he was dancing around with a choke hold on his wrist, (aaaarrrrggghhh!!!) trying to squeeze hard enough to keep the pain signals in his hand from running up his arm to his brain, the relief valve on the gas tank let go, and the fat lady commenced to sing.

The raw gas dumping out onto the burning grass said, "Foon!" and made short work of the Wagoneer. Fire department came and cooled the whole mess off, but there wasn't a lot left to worry about by the time they got there. It was all gone. The jeep and the jack and the 4x4 and the fish were all gone. Well, the fish were still there, but they were pretty much overdone.

"There Is a Fahr in Ma Shoe!" (April 1996)

This second class was burning a bunch of scrap lumber in his back yard and, being an efficient kinda guy, once he got the flames going real good he left the fire and went around the corner of his house to tend to some other chores like gassing up the old grass flogger. Unfortunately, during the refueling he spilled a bit of hazmat--splashed a little benzina on the mower... a little more on his shoe. But, hey, no problemo. A quick dusting with a clean cloth and he's as good as new. Time passes... And about ten minutes later he again rounds the corner of his house--outbound, this time--with another load of lumber for the fire.

(OK, sound FX crew stand by. We'll do Homer Simpson followed immediately by Don Martin.)

I guess the guy didn't see the tree root. 'Cause when he tripped over it and stumbled forward, his foot (still encased in that gasoline-soaked sneaker) landed right next to the fire.

"Doh!"

"Foon!"

So he looks down and whaddayaknow? His starboard zapata is alight! (Did'ja ever notice how it doesn't take a whole lot of combustion in your sneaker to really focus your attention?) Dingdingdingdingding! "Fahr! Fahr! Fahr! There is a fahr in ma shoe. Away the at-home fahr party!"

This guy broke into a rain dance that made the opening credits of "Boston Common" look like the hokey-pokey. The flames were about half way up his leg by the time he boogied over to the garden hose and put out the fahr. Wahoo! Second-degree burns to his foot and leg.

Man, This Bonfire Is Brighter Than the Lantern (March 1996)

A corpsman decided to spend the late afternoon changing the fuel pump on his vee-hickel. As the sun set and the shadows lengthened, old doc was having trouble seeing what he was doing, so he scuttered out from under the car and rummaged around in his garage until he came up with a Coleman lantern. (Don't get ahead of me, now.) He pumped it up, lit it up, and sat it on the ground alongside his ride before he crawled back underneath. It was about 1930 before the cloud of vapors that formed from the gasoline that had been dripping on the corpsman all afternoon drifted out from under the car then wafted up into those little socks inside the lantern's globe and went--all together now--"Foon!" Man, he come out from under that car like a scalded dog.

But you gotta give this guy credit; he never lost what those aviators call "situational awareness." (Those of us for whom English is not a foreign tongue would praise his presence of mind.) He rolled around in the grass--which put out his own, personal bonfire--then he grabbed an extinguisher and put out the fire under the car, then he ran into the house and took a shower so he'd look presentable when the rescue squad showed up... Pausing momentarily to dial 911 on his way to the head. Too bad he couldn't demonstrate that kind of clear- headedness whilst in the horizontal position. His first- and second-degree burns kept him out of work for a month.

Finding Out What the Grey Powder Was (January 1996)

A sergeant, on discovering some grey powder in the bottom of a metal ammo can, poured it out onto the ground and tried to light it with his cigarette lighter. Two times. Two flicks of his bic before the mysterious powder went--altogether now--"Foon!"

The Chief Who Imitated the Big Bad Wolf (December 1995)

The chief was using one of those tall smokers to cook some roast beast. Because he hadn't looked inside the contraption for almost three hours, he opened that little door on the bottom to eyeball the fire and check the water level. Finding them both low, he filled the water box with a spray nozzle, then took a deep breath, leaned, down and blew mightily on the glowing coals. "Foon!" A huge fireball blew out of the machine and all but fried the chief who suffered severe burns to his hands, chest and face. Turns out there was this layer of grease floating in the water box which the chief had inadvertently splashed onto the fire when he topped it off. The grease lay smoldering on the coals like a time bomb--lacking only a spark to set it off. The chief generously supplied the necessary temperature spike when, like the big bad wolf, he began to huff and to puff into the firebox. That's all it took. Ka-blam!

Applying Some Pliers to Live Power (November 1995)

A QMSN was op-testing the navigation lights for his ship. He noticed the forward mast light was not working so he went to investigate. After removing the cover to the light, he found a broken bulb. Without tagging out or securing the power to the light, this novice electrician's mate tried to remove the old bulb using (honest to Pete) a pair of needle-nose pliers. Brffzzzzt! Foon!

Just Like "Backdraft" Except More Painful (September 1995)

Remember the movie, "Backdraft"? Turns out we're not safe anywhere... not even on the highway. The CTA2 and her husband were driving home after an ice-cream sortie when the husband glanced up from his double-dip butter pecan and saw smoke pouring out from under the hood. He pulled off to the side of the road to check it out. Before opening the hood, he told his wife to get out of the car. She stepped out of the open the door, then turned to grab her purse. At that moment, her husband opened the hood and "Foon!" A ball of flame swept under the car. The CTA2 suffered first- and second-degree burns to her leg and ankle.

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