The Darwin Awards 4: Intelligent Design

by Wendy Northcutt

  Robert, thirty-five, was eager to hang out with the nudists at the Palm Springs campground, in a part of Death Valley where temperatures reached 136 degrees Fahrenheit. The track was rough but passable until he was lured into the Saline Mud Flats by the deceptively dry appearance of its cracked surface, which radiated heat in the baking sun. Within a few feet, the wheels of his VW Microbus sunk deep into the muck hiding just beneath the crust.

  Robert was miles from nowhere, surrounded by the bleached skulls of other animals that had become trapped in the mire. But he had plenty of provisions, so he waited for help to find him on the remote dirt track. After six days, he finally abandoned the microbus and began walking to a less deserted location where someone was more likely to pass.

  Luck was with him! As he was shaking the last drop of water from his bottle, help arrived in the form of fourteen-year-old British lads from the League of Venturers, who were training in search-and-rescue techniques. “He was crying and completely hysterical. I don’t think he expected to last the day,” said the unit leader. They gave him a lift to the nearest ranger station, eighty miles away, where he kissed the ground in gratitude.

  Robert had cheated death once, but that didn’t stop him from tempting fate again.

  In nearby Bishop, he found someone to tow the microbus out of the mud flats. Alas, it had two flat tires and other mechanical problems, so he returned to Bishop for automotive supplies. He snagged another ride into Death Valley, this time with a couple who took an unfamiliar route from the north, and dropped him off at a washout in the road about fifteen miles from the Palm Springs campground.

  His plan was to locate the campground and enlist help fixing his vehicle. He stashed his supplies and began walking. His body was found three days later, without a map, a GPS, or even water. Authorities estimated that he had walked along the road for ten miles before heading into the open desert, seeking water.

  Reference: Southampton Echo, UK; Daily Record, Glasgow, UK; www.death-valley.us; Daily Mirror; KCBS

  DARWIN AWARD: TREE HARD, HEAD EMPTY

  Confirmed by Darwin

  17 FEBRUARY 2003, NEW YORK

  A twenty-five-year-old man, long accustomed to annoying neighbors by snowmobiling at high speeds through sleeping streets, finally received his comeuppance—and in the process, a Darwinian nomination—when he drove headfirst into a tree.

  It is not only his reckless speeding through a nighttime residential area that makes him eligible; nor is it merely because he was driving an unregistered, uninsured snowmobile without a helmet while drunk. Although these spectacularly stupid ideas were ultimately responsible for his demise, there is yet another relevant aspect to report.

  Brian was a fireman, a member of the same company dispatched to peel him off the tree, the same organization that preaches snowmobile safety, responds to other gruesome snowmobile accidents, and the very same company that posts an illuminated “helmet safety” notice seven hundred feet from his own home.

  Clearly, while others have been as foolish as Brian in their choice of recreational activities, few have been so uniquely aware of the possible concussions and repercussions prior to making that choice!

  Reference: Personal account, AP, buffalonews.com, cable6tv.com

  * * *

  READER COMMENTS:

  “I don’t think a helmet would have helped the last smart cell in his brain escape this one.”

  “The only way this could have been better is if he had contrived to hit the same pole that the ‘helmet safety’ sign was posted on….”

  * * *

  DARWIN AWARD: HECK ON WHEELS

  Confirmed by Darwin

  17 APRIL 2005, SYRACUSE, INDIANA

  Late one night, twenty-six-year-old Joseph was blazing down a road in the Chain O’Lakes district on his Yamaha moped. When he saw flashing lights in his rear-view mirror, well…with the wind whistling in his ears, he apparently concluded that his moped could outrun a police cruiser. This hard-boiled Heck’s Angel revved his engine and roared off.

  The speedometer needle flashed past ten, twenty, and then thirty miles per hour, and within a minute, it was in the red zone at a blinding forty. But no matter how fast Joseph went, he was unable to shake the pursuing police officer from his tail! If only he had a spare JATO!

  The two-stroke engine was buzzing like a hummingbird from the strain of the chase. Perhaps he was thinking, “You’ll never take me alive, copper!” as he sped through the intersection. Whatever his last thoughts may have been, Joseph lost control of his would-be road rocket, crashed into a tree, and died instantly.

  Reference: Warsaw Times-Union, wlzq.com, wndu.com

  DARWIN AWARD: SELF-DEMOLITION DERBY

  Confirmed by Darwin

  SEPTEMBER 2003, MINNESOTA

  The purpose of a demolition derby is to smash into other cars. Crash, repair, repeat. As a result, in competition, derby cars become more fragile than the average car. So you would think that Scot, a derby car owner, would take this fact into account when he crawled under his car for repairs. Why take the time to put a car up on blocks? It would be faster and easier to use a handy Bobcat-type skid loader and just lift the car up from its bumper.

  When the car was raised, Scot slid beneath. Then the bumper broke off. Help was immediately summoned, but it was too late. Scot had lost his final demolition derby.

  Reference: Detroit Lakes Tribune

  DARWIN AWARD: ASPHALT TATTOO

  Confirmed by Darwin

  1 SEPTEMBER 2003, COLORADO

  Ever since middle school, friends say, Tyler, 20, wanted to do something different, something unique, something nobody else would ever try: jump from a moving car. “He thought he could jump, roll, and stand,” said a friend, “like you see in the movies.” Tyler came away from an early car-jump experiment alive, with an asphalt tattoo to commemorate the feat.

  On Labor Day, he was planning another dramatic stunt, riding in the back seat of a Subaru Legacy. Although his friends tried to talk him out of it, the Subaru was cruising at forty miles per hour when Tyler decided that he could, he should, he would jump from the car.

  His father explained, “I think this was the last big thing he wanted to do as an immature kid, before accepting he had to grow up.” But plans to mature were cut short by his instant death, as he hit the road one last time. Tyler’s final jump is commemorated with another asphalt tattoo, this one shaped like a Darwin Award.

  Reference: Rocky Mountain News

  HONORABLE MENTION: OVERHEATED ENGINE

  Confirmed by Darwin

  7 JANUARY 2004, CROATIA

  “Maybe I used too much paper.”

  Eastern Europe is known for its harsh winters, and Dusan, fifty-two, had weathered his fair share of them in his town. But when temperatures dropped low enough to play havoc with outdoor machinery, Dusan was exasperated to find that his Opel Kadett had fallen victim to the cold, repeatedly refusing to start.

  The engine must be frozen, he decided. He remembered times he himself had been freezing in those icy Croatian winters. There was nothing better than warming up before a toasty roaring fire. Yes! That was clearly the solution to his problem. A roaring fire would warm up the Opel’s engine.

  Dusan fetched some old newspapers, stuffed them under the engine, and lit them. While waiting for the engine to warm up, he wandered off—a fortunate occurence, because his beloved car exploded in a fireball. The heartbroken man told reporters, “I couldn’t start the engine and realized it was frozen. Now my lovely car is destroyed.”

  Luckily, Dusan has identified what went wrong.

  “Maybe I used too much paper,” he said.

  Reference: ananova.com

  * * *

  Before fuel preheaters were installed in diesel engines, it was common for fires to be lit under frozen engines to thaw out the fuel. Because diesel is a safer fuel, this is less problematic than lighting a fire in a petrol (gasoline) engine.

  * * *

  * * *


  When a story is about a person who is still with us, the name is changed. In this case, I selected a Croatian name meaning, “God is my judge.”

  * * *

  HONORABLE MENTION: CLEAN BRAKE

  Confirmed by Darwin

  5 NOVEMBER 2004, NEW ZEALAND

  Sometimes it pays to use a cheaper substitute, thought Shane, nineteen, as he replaced lost brake fluid with dishwashing liquid. He took the car out for a test drive and discovered that sometimes you get what you pay for.

  He applied his foot to the brake pedal as the car began to slide around a slight bend, but for some reason, the brakes didn’t respond. The car spun completely around, clipped the curb, and slammed into a power pole.

  His trouble was just beginning, though, because Shane had also saved money by not registering the car. There was really no point in registering the car, he thought, because his license had already been suspended. Shane was sentenced to two hundred twenty hours of community service for driving with a suspended license, dangerous driving, and stealing two orange traffic safety cones.

  For what it’s worth, his license was suspended for another year.

  Reference: New Zealand Herald

  HONORABLE MENTION: HAPPY CAMPER

  Unconfirmed by Darwin

  CAMPING SEASON 2003, MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

  Emergency services was called to attend to a motor-vehicle fire on the Monash Freeway, a beltway around Melbourne. On arrival they found an agitated young man watching his car go up in smoke.

  After extinguishing the fire, they inspected the small four-cylinder vehicle, which was tightly packed with camping gear. Upon raising the hood, they discovered the cause of the fire: smoldering camping gear that had been stashed in the engine bay, including a bottle of gas used for a portable barbecue!

  The driver explained that he was taking an extended camping trip and had run out of room in the passenger compartment, so he decided to use all that “wasted space” in the engine bay.

  Our Aussie correspondent says, “I reckon that the only waste of space was between this bloke’s ears. If the fireys hadn’t arrived when they did, we would have had the first Ford in orbit.”

  Reference: Channel 9 News

  HONORABLE MENTION: PICTURE-PERFECT COP

  Confirmed by Darwin

  7 AUGUST 2003, WYOMING

  Like a true country child, Tom was born, born to be wild…even though he had grown up to be a county sheriff. The wild one had taken to the road in the company of another lawman and his brother, riding his hog without a helmet to the big motorcycle rally in South Dakota.

  No road trip would be complete without a commemorative photograph. With the wind streaming through his hair at sixty-five miles per hour, Tom decided the conditions were right. He took his camera and turned around to take a picture of the bike behind him. This of course required the bold Harley rider to take his hands off the handlebars.

  As a state trooper described it later, the motorcycle drifted to the right and headed for a telephone pole. Tom lost control trying to wrestle the bike back onto the highway and went sailing through the air, probably wishing he had worn his helmet after all. When he landed, he broke his eye socket, four ribs, and a shoulder bone, and suffered other head injuries and road rash. There’s no word on whether he got the photograph or not.

  Tom had been following a beloved motto: “No Helmets 4 Harleys.” Although he miraculously survived, he nearly proved another adage: “There are old riders, and bold riders, but no old bold riders!”

  Reference: Associated Press, Casper Star-Tribune

  HONORABLE MENTION: NEW HOG

  Confirmed by Darwin

  1 OCTOBER 2002, MICHIGAN

  Luke was pushing sixty when youthful memories of Easy Rider brought him to the local Harley-Davidson dealership. “It was a mid-age crisis,” he told a reporter. “I’d see dudes with women and thought a motorcycle would put me in like Flynn.”

  When the dealer delivered the gleaming new hog to Luke’s front door, his eyes lit up like a boy receiving a Red Ryder two-hundred-shot carbine air rifle with a compass in the stock—and no grownups around to warn him that his new toy could put an eye out!

  Luke started the engine and felt its pulsing, guttural power. It had been thirty years since he had been in the saddle of a babe-magnet like this. He revved the engine and listened to it purr. He kicked it into gear and roared off down the road. Born to be wild!

  Ten seconds and a tenth of a mile later, Luke slammed into a neighbor’s utility trailer at forty miles per hour as he tried to remember how the throttle worked. The cops who investigated told him it was a miracle he was alive. He survived with just a few broken ribs. “Oh my God,” he said, “I hurt in places I didn’t know could hurt.”

  Insurance covered repairs to the bike and the trailer. Luke sold the restored dream machine for $800 less than he paid, but every few weeks, he continues to receive mailings from his complimentary membership in the Harley Owners Group. Some dreams die hard.

  Reference: AP

  PERSONAL ACCOUNT: BLAST FROM THE PAST

  MID-1950S, USA

  My father and uncle were reminiscing about their youth, and they shared a rather Darwinian story. In their twenties, they succeeded in assembling one great car out of three junkers. After they accomplished this, they had enough parts left over to make a second working car—but only barely. This car was missing most of its floorboards, so they could see the ground flash past while driving. They called this a feature rather than a flaw, and decided to have fun with it.

  In the fifties, high-powered explosives were still easy to acquire. So, with quarter sticks of dynamite readily available, my future father and his brother drove around throwing dynamite sticks through the gaps in the floorboards, basically scaring the daylights out of people in cars behind them. THIS WAS FUN! They even shortened the fuses to make sure that the sticks would “safely” explode before the car behind them drove over them.

  When I heard this story, my first response was, “Weren’t you concerned about the gas tank below you?” To my amazement, they both looked rather surprised, exchanged glances, and said, “We never thought of that!”

  My grandfather just laughed and walked out of the room.

  Reference: Eric Vane, Personal Account

  PERSONAL ACCOUNT: BRAKE CARE

  SUMMER 2001, USA

  “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

  I am a keen mountain biker, and was the proud owner of a fairly expensive mountain bike. My bike was fitted with “V” brakes, which are extremely effective though prone to squealing.

  My dear brother decided to have a ride on my bike one day while I was out. He noticed the squealing as he cycled down the hill we live on, toward the invariably busy crossroads at the bottom. Being a helpful sort, he headed back home and proceeded to pour a generous amount of 3-IN-ONE oil onto the brakes, before once more setting off down the hill.

  The oil worked! The only reported squealing came from my brother, as he slammed into the side of a moving VW Beetle. To this day he sports an impressive scar running from his eye socket to just past his ear.

  And yes, the bike was totaled.

  Reference: Personal Account

  PERSONAL ACCOUNT: WILD WHEELCHAIR RIDE

  4 JULY 1995, SOMEWHERE IN THE USA

  During my second year of residency in orthopedic surgery, a thirty-five-year-old roofer was admitted to the hospital after falling from a roof. His boss had told him to tie himself off to prevent a fall, but he was an experienced roofer and knew that wouldn’t happen. Nevertheless, he fell off the roof, fracturing his pelvis, his right femur, and his left tibia. An avoidable accident, but certainly not worthy of a Darwin Award. The patient underwent surgery, and was discharged from the hospital after an uneventful three-day postoperative course.

  So far, so good.

  The patient returned by Care Flight nine hours later, looking worse than he had the first time. He had torn the external fixator from one sid
e of his pelvis, fractured his femur below the rod that had been used to fix it the first time, and fractured his tibia above the rod used to fix that, as well. And he hadn’t been anywhere near a roof.

  It turned out that he and his brother-in-law had decided to go barhopping to celebrate his recovery. Since he was stuck in a wheelchair, they figured the best way to get him from bar to bar was to duct tape his wheelchair to the bed of the pickup truck. The plan worked perfectly all evening, as they got more and more soused. Now, if only they had duct taped the roofer to his wheelchair….

  They were on their way home when his brother-in-law took a corner too fast. The roofer shot out of his wheelchair and landed on the street.

  The patient was repaired, and he recovered fully, much to the annoyance of natural selection. I don’t know if he ties himself off when roofing these days, but he hasn’t been back to my hospital. I’m not sure how long he’ll remain in the gene pool, though, and he certainly deserves an Honorable Mention.